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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

Nan Fischer

Coddle Your Creativity

Creativity is a spiritual expression of our most authentic self. Writers dig deep, searching for and telling their truth, and in the process they self-actualize.

Because creativity is about the self, you need to nurture it. Honor yourself with self-respect, being organized and quiet time to nurture your creativity, reduce fears and increase productivity.

Self-respect
"I Matter. My Work Matters."

This is a sign taped next to my monitor where I see it every time I sit down to write. I need this reminder every day. The idea of mattering helps me stay strong against the inner critic.

When my negative self-talk tries to sabotage my work, I beat it away with the I Matter Mantra and pull myself back to a more productive state of being. I say, "I matter," right out loud with conviction. This changes my perspective moving me from fear to confidence and productivity.

Believe that what you have to say is important. Know that there are readers out there who need the information you want to convey. When you hear a voice telling you not to bother writing, tell that voice that you matter, and keep writing.

Honor yourself with lots of support. Find a writing group, writing buddy or a coach. Share your work with family and friends that understand what you do. Support is another way to ward off negative self-talk and build confidence.

Praise yourself. At the end of the day, don't look at what didn't get done. Praise yourself for what did get accomplished. Too often we focus on the negative instead of the positive. Change your perspective with a daily acknowledgement of how much got done.

Just yesterday, I was upset with myself that this article was not done. I caught myself in the act of beating myself up and changed my thoughts from negative to positive. I told myself I was proud for getting most of it done and that I'd finish it in the morning. I felt much better about myself, and I was more inspired to continue to work on it. Positive affirmations keep us motivated.

Being Organized
An organized workspace doesn't fit the romantic notion of creativity and the muse, but it is crucial. It will free up your time and energy for deep writing, and it will increase your productivity. You won't be cleaning off the kitchen table again, or looking for papers, folders and books in each room of the house. You can walk to your desk, know what you are going to work on that day, and find what you need. You save hours each week by being organized.

Shirley Jump, who writes romantic comedies for Kensington and Silhouette, says "an organized writer is a productive writer." Her very organized writing space helps her be more productive by writing better and faster. "A serene work environment leads to a less-stressed writer, which leads to more focus on the work."

Your workspace should be just for writing. Honor it with:

  • a good size desk
  • proper materials (computer, pen, paper)
  • resources (books, websites bookmarked)
  • bookshelves (for all those resources)
  • comfortable atmosphere (including a place to get away from your desk where you can relax and still work, like a comfy easy chair)
  • calendar (months ahead so there are no surprise deadlines - put it where you can see it every day, the bigger the better)
  • a schedule (write it down and, again, put it where you can see it - take it seriously, but allow flexibility)
  • inspiring non-writing related items (photographs, mementos, lucky charms, etc.)

When you have everything you need where you need it, you respect your creativity and yourself. Make your writing important! Give it the recognition, space, time and materials it needs. Remember, it is an extension of you.

A writing ritual is a "ceremony" performed before and after you're done working. It says that you are committing this part of your day solely to writing. It will define your writing time, which creates discipline and helps you keep a schedule. A ritual can be as simple as lighting a candle, breathing and stretching, or preparing your materials and space the night before. You honor your creativity by making it important with a ritual.

Quiet Time
Quiet time serves several purposes.

  • It helps you get centered to work more efficiently, just like the writing ritual.
  • Because writing is a spiritual expression, quiet time puts you in touch with your subconscious. This is where the deepest writing comes from. It's your true self, the one you want to share with your readers.
  • It replaces your mind chatter with fresh ideas. "The noisy mind suppresses ideas," says Eric Maisel, a creativity coach and author of The Creativity Book. Only an empty well can get filled.
  • When your mind is clear, you can make decisions with clarity. Throughout the course of an article or book, there are choices to be made—topic, style, length, and to quote or not to quote. These can cause a lot of anxiety. Quiet time centers you, bringing our energy to a lower place in your body besides our head. When you feel centered and your mind is clear, you can make choices based on logic, not emotion.
Quiet time is crucial to my writing and coaching. It's when my mind is unburdened by daily tasks, and ideas come easily and quickly. I love daily mundane household chores for this, like washing dishes and hanging laundry. The actions are second nature, which allows my mind to be available and open.

Another quiet place where many writers get ideas is in the shower. I do very well here, too. It's a combination of the hot water and the routine that lets my mind be its most creative. I keep a notebook in the bathroom, too, to write down revelations or that sentence that was evading me.

Conclusion
Self-respect, being organized and finding quiet time are not exclusive of each other. They are intertwined within the creative process, and your creativity is you.

Do not separate yourself from your writing! The best way to nurture your creativity is to nurture yourself. Whatever you do to pamper yourself will make your work glow.

Believe in yourself, give yourself the best working conditions, and spend time with yourself to recharge and tap into your subconscious for authentic ideas. When you apply these ideas to your writing, you'll find that they benefit your personal life, too. You'll increase your self-esteem, live more fearlessly, and be more productive.


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Craft of Writing

Donna Sundblad

Excavating The Fossil
Creating a Story from a Simple Writing Exercise

Recently, a writing exercise prompted me to set the timer for twenty minutes. The only other guideline—use the word petrify or a form therein within the first paragraph.

My imagination painted the picture of a petrified young woman. I watched her duck into a dead-end alley. One word at a time, my fingers translated the vision from the imaginary realm to a concrete skeleton. The dim streetlight highlighted steady rain as my drenched character pressed her back against a wet brick wall. The silhouettes of three men appeared at the mouth of the alley.

My first paragraph offered fragments of the young woman’s predicament. Trapped in the dead-end, the woman slipped into the shadows of a darkened doorway, slumped onto the cold concrete and curled into a fetal position. Matted hair clung to her forehead until she used her gloved hand to swipe it from her eyes. One of the three men entered the alley and called her name. The developing details offered a quick peek at the man’s expensive shoes as he straddled puddles lining the floor of the alley. The man called her name again, begged her to show herself and promised everything would be okay.

The timer beeped—twenty minutes gone. I considered the undeveloped characters birthed within the scene.

Identifying the Fossils
In Stephen King’s book, On Writing, King expresses a similar experience. "…knowing the story wasn’t necessary for me to begin work. I had located the fossil. The rest, I knew, would consist of careful excavation."

Even though I had no plot or outline, I recognized the fragments of possibilities that filled the four paragraphs. These treasures, like fossils buried beneath a matrix of digressions, tangents, and other irrelevancies, lie in wait to be discovered among the sediment of words poured from the chimerical domain of my mind.

The word "petrify" and the twenty-minute time limit served as instruments to help me locate the faint imprint I considered a starting point. No outline or plot points—just one short scene. Now I needed to begin the excavating process.

Collecting the Fragments
Paleontologists use a variety of techniques to make fossils easier to see. It is no different for the writer. I sifted through my draft and made note of interesting details and characters.

How do characters relate to one another?

The man wearing the expensive shoes knew the woman in hiding.

She feared him.

What do the details tell me?

The woman wore a red dress and matching gloves. She cowered in the alley to hide from three men.

The man wearing the expensive shoes knew the woman’s name and that she might be hiding in the alley.

The garbage strewn alley alerts me to a city setting.

These traces pointed to interesting and complex lives. But, how does such a fossil become more than another unfinished story stuffed into a file collecting dust?

Reconstruct the Evidence
The answers to the above questions help identify the fossil, but it is this last question that frees it from the rocky milieu of unfinished manuscripts. Each detail fragment holds promise as part of the skeleton. The next step is to dig deeper. You need more information.

What doesn’t it explain?

Why is the woman hiding?

How does the man know her?

Is he really looking out for her best interest or wishing her harm?

Why is she wearing gloves?

The vivid picture of a frightened young woman led me to wonder what made her run. I allowed the scene to set. My mind toyed with different scenarios. I considered the reasons she would dress the way she did, why she would hide and the relationship between the two characters.

To avoid the layer of bedrock known as writer’s block, I sometimes apply another writing prompt, exercise, or challenge to already written work. During the early phase of the alley scene, I learned of a writing contest that required a crime to occur in a bathroom. It sent my thought processes in a new direction. The new information led to a second scene. The same young woman witnessed a double murder while hiding in a closet. Would I use both of these scenes or did the first serve as a springboard to the second?

I pieced together bits of evidence from both scenes. The common thread—the young woman concealed her presence. I asked myself why she would be in the closet and what kind of relationship existed between her and the victims.

Creating a Life Form
Often, one fossil represents a segment of the puzzle. Paleontologists use their creativity to link these pieces together into a possible life form.

Creativity can become stifled when we attempt to produce characters based on preset parameters. Personalities that grow naturally tend to be more unpredictable and less contrived and such an entity makes interesting reading. Characters develop, take form and come alive as the individuals act and react to their circumstances. It makes writing as much fun as reading a book. I placed my character in the closet where she witnessed a murder. I couldn’t wait to turn the page of my imagination to learn what happened next. Is this why she hid in the alley? Is the man wearing the expensive shoes the murderer?

I read through unfinished stories before bed and place myself in the character’s head. My mind brushes aside the dust of preconceived ideas. Through this process, I learned the woman in hiding found solace in the closet. In the morning, I sat at the computer with a fresh perspective and another fragment. A new piece of the skeleton fit into place.

Fragmentation to Continuity
The two scenes offered new insight. Like the paleontologist linking dinosaur bones, I followed the thread of continuity. The woman found comfort in the darkened doorway in the alley and in the shadows of the closet. Her background began to surface. As an abused child, she hid in the closet to avoid her father. In her twisted thinking, she compared such situations to childhood memories. It added depth to her character, a psychotic bent that offered more possible plot twists.

Using this approach produces believable characters, fresh plots and unpredictable twists that hold the reader’s interest. In my original scene, I witnessed details that led me to believe the helpless girl was hunted by a self-confident thug, but the young woman carried the plot in another direction. The writing contest became the catalyst used to free the fossil. In this case it turned out to be a blonde, petite woman more cunning than anyone suspected—even me. The key is to write. If you don’t, there’s no fossil to locate.


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Craft of Writing

Katerie Prior

The Mixed Blessings of Data Loss

A few months ago, a power surge zapped my laptop computer. One moment, I was working on my novel, and the next, I was shouting, Nooooooooooo! to a darkened screen as I hit the CTRL+ALT+Delete keys.
 
When I took my computer into the repair shop, I received the good news/bad news. My computer could be fixed, but I would lose everything on it. “Did you do any backups?” the kid behind the counter asked me. I struggled to do a quick mental inventory. A few things were on disk. One or two stories were printed and some of my work was handwritten.
 
Aside from those few things, however, the amount of work I lost was staggering to imagine. A list of publications that I queried and who responded. Electronic copies of stories I wrote for a now-defunct magazine. Articles I was going to submit, ideas for my Web site, my first novel, several in-progress screenplays, plans for my short stories. All lost. I could barely shake my head "no" to the repair tech’s question.
 
When I told people about my computer, in addition to sympathy, nearly everyone told me their own story of losing something significant. I was also comforted to know many famous authors have a tale about losing an important piece of their work. Hemingway was traveling when he finished his first novel. The suitcase containing this first opus was lost during the trip and never recovered. 
 
These days, writers don’t need to travel to lose their work. With viruses, power surges, and file corruption, authors risk losing not only a single piece but a significant amount of writing and related material by just turning their computers on. As writers, we should value our work enough to protect it from everything. That means taking the time to protect the main tool we use to create and refine our product—our computers.
 
If you haven’t lost your writing yet, consider yourself lucky. But don’t be fooled into thinking that your good fortune won’t run out. Whether you lost your work at some point or not, you should follow these guidelines to safeguard both your computer and your stored writing.
 
Back Up Your Work Now
Maybe it’s been months since your last backup or you have just never had the time to do it. Either way, make some room in your schedule immediately to back up all of your work. Grab a couple of floppy disks or, if you have a CD burner, a CD and begin saving your files. Once complete, check the CD in another computer to see that the files are stored. By "check the CD," this means actually opening the files, not simply looking at the CD's directory in a file browser like Windows Explorer; being able to open a file and see all of its contents reassures you that the file wasn't somehow corrupted. Then, put these disks in a safe place where they won’t get scratched or damaged.
 
Back Up Your Computer
When you turned your computer on for the first time, you may have seen a system message asking you to create a recovery disk. If you don’t remember seeing this message, chances are you didn’t make a recovery disk. 
 
When your system is unable to start normally, either from a virus attack or other problem, the recovery disk is able to restore most files pointing to software and other programs on your computer. Although you may have already completed this step, you may want to re-create this disk again since the recovery also saves personal settings and history. Since each system is different, review the Help documentation on your computer for more specific information on creating a system recovery disk.
 
Create A Backup Schedule
Now that you have the files saved and a recovery disk created, set a date for your next backup and stick to it. The length of time you choose depends on the way you work, although the timeline should be within one to three months.
 
Of course, there may be items you work on that you frequently update, and losing the changes between backups would be distressing. You may want to save these to a floppy disk, print them, or e-mail the files to yourself. If you are working on a longer document such as a book or a screenplay, consider purchasing a memory stick. These devices plug into any computer with a USB port and provide 64MB to 128MB of storage.
 
Protect Your Computer
While backups protect your work, you should also make sure to protect your machine during use. Your computer should never be on without being plugged into a surge protector. Power surges can also come through the phone lines, so if you are using a dial-up connection, unplug the phone line from your computer when you are not browsing the Internet.
 
Your computer also needs active and regularly updated virus protection installed. Both McAfee and Symantec provide reasonably priced software and subscription services for updated virus definitions (which are what anti-virus software uses to detect and block viruses).

In addition to viruses, hackers and crackers can sneak a peak at your computer if you are online. With this in mind, consider installing firewall or Internet security software on your machine.
 
If the worst does happen and your computer crashes, don’t despair. For writers, being forced to go back to the drawing board sometimes provides opportunity. Although the loss of a novel was probably devastating to Hemingway, many academics debate about what may have happened if the young author had not lost this first novel. If he published this first, probably unsophisticated work, would he have been as good of a writer?
 
The loss of work can be devastating or alleviating. As I drove home from the computer repair shop, I lamented that I had lost nearly three years of work. But all my stories were still in my head. I could always work on them again. Or not. In some cases, I had stopped developing them when I lost my fervor for them. Since they were gone, I could let them mercifully slip back into the creative ether and focus on the few selections I had.
 
Ultimately, that was the mixed blessings of data loss. Losing my work taught me to protect it as well as be willing to let go of it. When my writing works, I save it. When it doesn’t, I’m more apt to create a fresh document and try again. Sure, I’ve lost valuable hours of time to get that point, but it’s worth it. I just think of what might have happened to Hemingway if he hadn’t lost his suitcase.


About The Author
Katerie Prior is a freelance and fiction writer from Michigan. Her articles have appeared at Techies.com, Garden and Hearth, SheKnow.com, and Renaissance magazine. Her fiction has appeared at WordRiot.org, Fiction Warehouse, and The Generation X Journal. She also maintains The Writer's Confidant Web site.


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Craft of Writing

George W. Bateson

The ‘What If’ Factor In Fiction Writing

"What if?" How many times have you asked this at a possible missed meeting or lost chance? They may be only two rather small words but apply some positive thought to them and ask, “What if—so what?” and kick-start an idea into a short story or even a full length novel.

Everything starts from an idea of some description or another. It is the basis of your novel or short story and needs to have life breathed into it—that spark that will set the flames of passion burning and turn that simple idea into a STORY.

The Idea
You see a man and a woman meeting in the street. She reaches out her hand to him, but he ignores this gesture. This gives you an idea for a short story. You write down what you saw that gave you the idea in the first place, so you won’t forget it, but on its own, just as it stands, it is nothing but an idea. To make it into a story try using the “what if” factor.

The “What If” Factor
Ok, so you’ve got your idea. Joe met Alice in the park. What of it? It’s nothing new.

But what if… Joe was having an affair with Alice?

Now that has put the idea into a totally different ball game. This is no longer just a friendly casual meeting. They are in your plot. They belong to you, and you can do whatever you want with them. So they are having an affair.

And what if … Joe had met Alice to break the whole thing off?

And what if … Alice had told him nothing doing?

Wow, things are beginning to heat up a little. The original idea is now beginning to fill out. It is starting to develop into a fairly sound plot, but so far we have only put the bones of the idea together. We now need to ask, “so what” in order to put flesh on those bones.

The “So What” Factor
Here we have Joe standing in the park facing Alice. He is pleading with her to break the relationship up, but she won’t. So what?

So, maybe Joe loses his cool and strikes out at her in his temper.

Maybe Alice falls to the ground, catches her head against the stone edging to the path, and is killed.

Now those two little “so what’s” have laid a whole lot of flesh on those bones. They are beginning to take on some shape, but, as yet, it is a somewhat indefinable shape. Maybe we need to go back to “what if.”

The Best Answer to the Question
There we have it then. Joe met Alice, and in a fit of temper, killed her. A good idea so far.

Now, what if Joe decides to call the police and explain that it was all an accident? This is a logical choice, maybe, but hardly one to make the reader sit up and shout for more.

So what if, instead, Joe decides to just slip away and say nothing?

The amount of meat on the first “what if” probably equates to a small steak, whereas the second has all the potential of a whole side of beef.

Turning your Sirloin into a Fillet
Just think of it. From the original friendly meeting you saw in the park, Joe now has a dead Alice on his hands and has decided to scarper. But what if—as he is fleeing the scene, he bumps into an old friend who wants to chat, but all Joe wants to do is get going, and what if that old friend says, “I’m meeting my fiancé in the park. You remember her, Joe. Her name is Alice.”

Bingo! With that, as much flesh as you can wish for has been piled onto that frame.

There you have it then. What started off as an idea that, on its own, really amounted to very little, has suddenly changed, simply by applying two little words—what if. Your little idea has grown into a full-bloodied plot, capable of anything from a short story to a mega sized novel. Of course the “what if” factor only puts flesh onto bare bones. The next step is to breath life into that mound of flesh and bones using elements like character and voice to create something that will ooze vitality and spirit. It is at this point that “what if” can have a negative influence, as you ask yourself “What if I can’t?”

Well, there is only one way to find out. Simply turn the question around and ask, “What if I can? “

So, pick up that pen and write, and at the end of it all, you could be sitting holding your published book saying, "What if … I hadn’t?"


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


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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

Serious Humor: An Oxymoron or Effective Tool?

I was sorely tempted to seek permission to skip this month’s column due to illness. Recently I underwent two operations to implant an intrathecal pump to ameliorate chronic pain syndrome. The first operation is relatively simple. The pain specialist sedated me, I remained conscious but oblivious, and he inserted a shunt into my intrathecal canal, which is essentially identical to a lumbar puncture or, for those who prefer more gruesome terminology, a spinal tap. He next ran a tube to a box-shaped contraption I wore around my neck, filled it with morphine and adjusted the dosage over four days to determine whether I was a proper candidate for the pump. I was. Goody, goody! Soon there would be no more complaints from relatives and friends about the massive doses of oxycontin and percocet I swallowed all day.

Two weeks later I returned to the hospital for abdominal surgery to implant the pump and run tubing under my skin into the intrathecal spinal canal, an overnight operation. I expected general anesthesia for this mother. No such luck. I remained conscious, screaming, for an hour and a half. Later my doctor informed me that half of those people awaiting surgery mysteriously vanished. So I had a legitimate reason for begging Judy and Joan to relieve me of this month’s duties.

However, I couldn’t bring myself to do so. I thought of the two people who actually read my column, and my sense of obligation set in. So here I sit, writhing in pain, serving those two connoisseurs of humor. Poor, poor pitiful me!

In last month’s column, I paid homage to Orson Scott Card’s Character & Viewpoint, specifically noting that “comedy almost always deals with pain, and comic characters almost always suffer.” Card was addressing humor as fiction.

However, humor is not always fictitious. As stated by William Zinsser in On Writing Well, “Humor is the secret weapon of the nonfiction writer. It’s secret because so few writers realize that humor is often their best tool—and sometimes their only tool—for making an important point.”

This appears to be a paradox. Writers of fiction realize that many of their readers haven’t a clue as to what they are attempting to accomplish. In On Writing Well, Zinsser recalls an inquiry as to a parody he wrote for Life. The question? "Should I refer to you as a humorist? Or have you also written anything serious?”

Zinsser responds, "If you’re trying to write humor, almost everything you do is serious. Few Americans understand this. Humorists are triflers who have never produced serious works. Pulitzer Prizes rarely go to the humorist. They go to the Hemingways and Faulkners who are indeed serious writers. The prizes rarely go to our humorists."

However, our humorists are serious writers. Once again, Zinsser describes their work perfectly. “They are as serious in purpose as Hemingway or Faulkner—a national asset in forcing the country to see itself clearly. Humor, to them, is urgent work. It’s an attempt to say important things in a special way that regular writers aren’t getting said in a regular way—or if they are, it’s so regular that nobody is reading it.”

In referring to Catch-22 and Dr. Strangelove, Zinsser asserts, “Those two works of comic invention are still standard points of reference for anyone trying to warn us about the military mentality that could blow us all up tomorrow. Joseph Heller and Stanley Kubrick heightened the truth about was just enough to catch its lunacy, and we recognize it as lunacy. The joke is no joke."

My friend, Oz—is this a cheap ploy to cast suspicion upon someone other than the actual perp? —was driving to Boston when he stopped at the entrance to the New Jersey Turnpike. He paid his toll and attempted to move on when the Man, a/k/a Cop, waved at him to pull over. The cop conducted a warrant-less search of Oz’s car and found an unloaded .25 Beretta. Oz was arrested, spent a night in jail and was released on bail the following day.

A preliminary hearing was scheduled for six months later to contest the legality of the search. Two months prior to this hearing, Oz received a letter from the President. “Greetings from the President of the United States.” Oz had been drafted.

He reported to his draft board as scheduled, prepared to serve his country by moving to Canada. No need to travel, though. The Draft Board found Oz too immoral to kill women, children and old folks after being arrested for possessing an unloaded, unregistered handgun. The army chose not to draft people familiar with firearms. The military felt Oz had an obvious propensity toward violence, something no war condones.

Oz still faced his preliminary hearing. The judge found the search of his car illegal, suppressed the evidence and Oz left the courtroom a free man, not entirely unscathed and definitely suffering. Attorneys are not cheap. But he felt it worth every cent to avoid fighting in what he considered an immoral war.

Humor is often based on pain. It may also be based on the lunacy of situations Sometimes pain is justified by the outcome and the revelation of lunacy in a purportedly sane society.

Oz never became as famous as Arlo Guthrie for his littering draft rejection. However, Oz’s rejection was even more absurd and ridiculous. Military logic. Another scribble in Ed’s Book of Oxymorons.
 

About the Author
Ed’s two readers have read his biography. For those who haven’t, you may find it in previous issues.

Ed thought he’d add a new tidbit. Ed cannot recall his draft classification other than what he informed the Maryland Bar Character Committee. The Army would draft women, children and old folks before resorting to drafting Ed.

Ed did play his part in the Vietnam War. Although he was an anti-war activist, Ed was not anti-soldier and solicited contributions from other anti-war activists who felt similarly. He and his anonymous supporters rented two apartments for returning veterans to wash the spit off their faces delivered by the ignorant who believed that 18-year-olds made foreign policy. Most of our returning new friends had finished their tours and said, “No, thank you, Uncle Sam,” when requested to serve a second tour. “We won’t be fooled again.” Others did return, mainly the poor, to accumulate more income to assist their families. Vietnam was not a rich man’s war, designed primarily to be fought by those who couldn’t or wouldn’t buy their way out.

This meager column is dedicated to those soldiers forced to fight in this conflict, particularly those friends whose names are now engraved on The Vietnam Memorial Wall and the walking and crippled wounded for whom the conflict will never end. Conflict. Vietnam was not a war, remember?


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Tips to Jumpstart Your Writing

Suzan L. Wiener

Sample Copies—Your Best Investment

When you send for guidelines to magazines, do you try to save the expense by not getting a sample copy? It's not a good idea. The editor may change the focus of the magazine and the guidelines may be outdated by the time you get them.

Often, having just one copy of the publication isn't enough. You need at least three or four current issues to make sure you're on top of what type of articles are being accepted. I get many more acceptances if I know the magazine thoroughly. It reflects in my writing, and the editor knows it, too.

If you have a copy of the magazine, you won't waste your time writing an article that has already been used, and the editor won't look at your work thinking you're a beginner. Don't forget, editors receive lots of manuscripts across their desks weekly and will appreciate that you are doing your homework.

It is amazing how fast a magazine will change the type of articles it uses. It's not easy for writers to keep up, but they have to if they want to get those most-welcomed acceptance letters and checks.

Editors appreciate it if your article is exactly geared to their audience. It doesn't even matter if it comes from the 'slush' pile. They will happily accept your work and use your material again and again—if they find you know their magazine as well as they do.

If you can't afford to buy individual sample copies, inquire as to a discounted subscription rate. Often times, it is less expensive to become a subscriber to a magazine than to pay for individual sample copies. Many magazines offer special promotions. Politely inquire to the subscription department about magazine rates.

Also, check your local library to see which magazines are available there. If you can't check the magazine out, simply photocopy the pages you want to keep Generally, there is a copier at the library you can use for a nominal fee. Check with your writing friends to see if you can trade publications too. This works out extremely well and I have saved a lot of money doing this.

Even if you are a beginner, editors don't have to know that. Your work can seem like you are a seasoned writer—IF you do your homework first. You will be glad you did.


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 E-Zine, Canadian Writer's Journal, Riverrun, Impetus, Saturday Evening Post, Poetry Press and Verses.


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

by Connie Ferdon

Author, Author

"'We accepted one just like this,'" Charlotte read, holding up a form letter for the writer's group.

"My rejection last week stated the same thing," Ashley said.

"Yesterday my rejection commented that they'd seen the incriminating clue before." This came from Peter.

"My rejection stated that they've had too many bank robbery crime stories lately," Brittany said.

"Charlotte, you show a lot of talent, but I'd suggest researching poisons more. Come up with a new one and send the story to a different market." Shirley was always full of ideas. Maybe that was why she was the most successful of their writer's support group. Charlotte nodded yes. Being a new member, she was eager for advice. .

"Okay, you're the expert," she thought and tried again. She rewrote the story and resubmitted it to the group for critiquing. Ashley, Brittany and Peter were supportive and, again, Shirley suggested more revisions.

"Charlotte, you're very creative. You keep coming up with winners like this and you'll be having your own book signing soon. Start practicing your signature."

With renewed resolve, Charlotte typed, hoping that she'd come up with the perfect plot. She also practiced her signature with her cover letters.

A month later Charlotte received another rejection, stating, "We just accepted a similar piece." Discouraged, she thumbed through the rest of her mail. There was a crime story magazine.

"Maybe I'll get some ideas in here."

Perusing the table of contents, she saw Shirley's name by one of the stories. She read the piece of fiction with her mouth open. It was Charlotte's first story with a different title and a slightly different angle, but it was her story. She sank in her computer chair.

"It can't be."

Charlotte's computer beeped with the delivery of a group email, congratulating Shirley on her story being published in Mystery Press. She rushed to check the web site. There was another one of Charlotte's story, but again with Shirley's name, a different title with a different take.

Charlotte understood. Shirley was appearing to be helpful, but in actuality she was stealing her stories, and likely the other members' too, submitting them as her work, and getting them published while Charlotte and the others looked like poor copy-cats.

Charlotte's anger raged. How dare Shirley claim to be the author of her stories! And just how long did she think she could get away with it? Didn't she realize that one of them would get suspicious sooner or later? No matter. She decided to write "the" story that would solve her Shirley problem for good by creating an original plot to murder her mentor. Do it for real, make it look like an accident and get a publishable story in the process. She had nothing to lose.

Charlotte remembered an email that Shirley had sent her just the other day on carbon monoxide poisoning. She found the email, read the article, smiled, and pounded furiously on her laptop.

"Let's see you steal this story, little Ms. Author."

A few days later, Charlotte called her mentor.

"Shirley, may I come over to your house? I need your help."

"Is it a writing problem?"

"You could say that. I'm stuck on something. It can't wait until the next group meeting."

"Sure, come on over."

Charlotte stuffed a typed piece of paper in her portfolio and in no time she was at Shirley's.

"I'm so glad you could see me. I'm in a bind."

"Come on in. Would you like some hot green tea?"

"Sure."

Charlotte sat on the couch, waiting patiently for her moment to act.

"Okay," Shirley said, sitting down two cups of tea, "What's the emergency?"

"I'm entering this writing contest and the deadline is tomorrow. I'm having trouble visualizing the plot."

Charlotte pulled out a vial from her purse.

"My story has the main character poisoning her victim, so I thought if we could reenact the crime, it would help me write it better." She added the liquid to Shirley's tea. Charlotte noticed Shirley's eyes grow wide. "Don't worry, it's just food coloring."

"Okay, my victim innocently drinks the liquid and is knocked out immediately. The killer sets out a suicide note and leaves."

"And then what?" Shirley asked, leaning forward.

"Well, that's where I get stuck. My killer has to get caught, but she created the perfect crime."

"What kind of poison is it? Maybe that's traceable back to the killer?"

"It's a simple tranquilizer."

"That's not a fatal drug," Shirley said, taking a big sip of her tea.

"No, but it makes the person pass out enough to commit the real crime."

"And what is the real crime?" she asked, taking another large sip. "What's the killer's motive?"

Shirley blinked. Her cup crashed to the floor.

"You've taught me well, Shirley." Charlotte smiled as her victim collapsed on the couch.

In a rush, Charlotte dragged Shirley's slim body out to the garage, placing her in the driver's seat. She inserted the key into the ignition and placed Charlotte's typed suicide note beside her victim. She went back inside to remove all traces of her visit and the broken teacup. Charlotte got into her own vehicle, drove around the corner and hit Shirley's remote starter. Her deed completed, she went home.

Later, Charlotte clicked happily on her laptop, writing the ending of the sad story of Shirley's demise for her next submission when she heard pounding on her front door. Two officers stood before her.

"Charlotte Forrester?" one asked.

"Yes..." Charlotte looked from one policeman to the other. She knew why they were here, but she knew she didn't leave any evidence at the scene.

"You're under arrest for the murder of Shirley Morris."

"Murder?" Charlotte feigned shock. "Shirley?"

"We found this by the body." He held up the suicide note. "It tells of the victim's reasons for suicide, but you signed it with your name. Thanks for being the author of your confession."

Copyright © 2004 Connie Ferdon


About the Author
Connie Ferdon lives in Springfield, MO with her husband, two daughters and two cats. Her crime fiction has appeared in Futures, Monthly Short Stories and Orchard Press magazines. Primary Treasure Magazine has published four of her children's stories. She is a member of Sleuth's Ink, OWLs, Juvenile Writers of Kansas City, Writers for Children, and SCBWI.


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

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Writers' Village University Membership Information

Fiction Short Story

by Charles Langley

"Bible Billy" and the Big Ole Bear

"Boozin' Billy" Givens had been a powerful sinner in his day, but then age began slowing his legs so he couldn't outrun his pursuers and his rapidly enlarging pot belly cut considerably into his attraction to other men's women. There was only one thing for him to do. What aging scoundrels before him had been doing since time began. He turned to religion as a refuge.

Billy had never been a member of a recognized church and had no instructions in the ways of the cloth, but that didn't deter him. He had heard The Call, he said, and answered it by forming The Worldwide Universal Church of Christ and Crisis. The unstructured nature of the popular new faith attracted disgruntled members from legitimate parishes and his following increased with celerity. He referred to himself as "The Most Reverend Reverend Givens," but his followers called him "Bible Billy."

The linchpin of his doctrine became, "Thou shalt not kill." Billy believed in this during the days when so many other men wanted to do just that to him, and he now extended it to farm animals and to squirrels, rabbits, and possums. This reduced greatly the food chain that sustained him and his fellow (churchgoers), but they managed to subsist on catfish and sunnies from Scummy Pond and the produce from their wheat fields, cornfields, and family gardens.

As the membership grew, his title failed to please him, and he promoted himself to Bishop and called his domain his Bishopric. Hearing how this sounded in the tones of his less than erudite church people, he decided instead on Cardinal and his realm became the Holy C.

"Not so much after the Pope's helpers, as after that purty red bird that sings his heart out each Sunday morning in the maple tree outside the church," he explained. "The C in the Holy C stands for Church, Community and several other good things not necessarily related to religious matters."

Because of the lack of restrictions and regulations, each member brought in pet peeves or hard thought out discriminations.

With Bessie Beal it was alcohol.

"Corn whiskey is pure liquid sin," she would tell you. "It makes a man want to do things women hardly ever enjoy and then loosens his lips so he tells everybody about it. If I wasn't so afraid of toothache or snake bite, I wouldn't allow a dram of it in my house." Her fears must have been very strong, for she kept refilling the gallon jug that sat in the bottom of the wash-stand in her bedroom.

Ben Collie had another idea about whiskey.

"It's a sin to grind up good corn to make corn meal," he insisted. "And iffen the Good Lord had meant for us to eat roastin' ears, he wouldn't have made it so hard to do without your front teeth."

When asked how much corn his farm produced, Ben quickly said, "Bout ten gallons to an acre."

"Buffalo" Brill had furnished meat for the railroad crew when it built the line through town, and he had seen so much butchering that he embraced the order against killing for food. Still, he kept his buffalo gun cleaned and well oiled in a cradle above the mantlepiece.

They called Abraham Pitkins, "Honest Abe."

"I ain't never stole nothing in my whole life," he bragged.

He didn't have to steal. He had every tool in town hanging in his shop, borrowed and not returned to the rightful owners, who found it easier to "borrow back" whatever of their possessions they needed than to try to get them back for good.

Everyone adjusted to their chosen diet, and hardly anyone had to work more than the minimum, so the Holy C became a place of relaxation and contentment.

Then came Big Ole Bear.

Small brown bears were native to the area and caused very little harm, but Big Ole Bear was something else. He ambled down out of the hills and created havoc. Tall in stature, weighing as much as any three men, destruction followed in his wake. He tore the small ears of corn from their stalks before they were ready to eat, wallowed over or trampled down the gardens, and emptied Scummy Pond of all except tadpoles and minnows. They put up scarecrows, but B.O.B. leveled them with one giant swipe. Bells and firecrackers fazed him not at all. Famine was in sight and no solution could be seen.

"Just this once, lift the restriction," "Buffalo" Brill said. "I can down him with one shot."

"Bible Billy" refused to budge. He knew relaxing the one strict rule of the congregation would lead to challenges to any other edict that might be given.

"You want to spend eternity in hell-fire and damnation?" he asked. "We'll pray over it and find another way to get rid of him."

They prayed while Big Ole Bear grew bigger and more voracious. They prayed more, and he knocked down doors to get food in their houses.

"Our prayers aren't working," Brill decided, "because we're surrounded by mountains and the Lord can't hear us over them. What we have to do is get everybody in the church praying at the top of their voices. Put two strong men on the ropes to the bell tower to ring the bells loud enough to attract His attention."

"Everyone in the church?" "Bible Billy" asked.

"Everybody except me. I'll stay outside and watch for Big Ole Bear so I can tell you when to start."

Since everything else had failed, they put the plan in motion the next Sunday. On Brill's signal they raised their voices in earsplitting prayer. One man in the bell tower said Big Old Bear came over the hill, stretched to his greatest height, then fell forward on his face.

"Must have been heart failure, or an invisible stroke of lightning. Truly a miracle," the bell-ringer said.

They came out to find Brill with a team of mules, tipping the carcass of Big Old Bear into the quicksand of No Man's Land.

"Buffalo" Brill was the hero of the moment. His fellow parishioners surrounded his home, shouting his name. One went into his house to ask him a question.

"I can see why we had to pray so loud, but why that consarned caterwauling with the bells. I couldn't hear right for an hour afterwards."

"Why question something that worked?" Brill asked. "Sometimes you need a little noise to drown out the sound of the miracle." He leaned back in his chair, glanced at the buffalo gun cradled above the mantelpiece and smiled.

Copyright © 2004 Charles Langley


About the Author
Since returning to writing three years ago after a fifty-nine year hiatus, Charles Langley has written over one hundred short stories, poems, or articles for print magazines, ezines and books. Gannett Newspapers recently gave full-page, nationwide coverage to his time as a cub reporter at the Hauptmann trial in Flemington, NJ, in 1935.


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

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Writers' Village University Membership Information

Fiction Short Story

by Susanne Shaphren

Blue Christmas

When I wake up in the ER, my first thought is that I've ruined Christmas for everybody by getting shot ... NOT!

That's actually way down the list. First is to say a little prayer of thanks that I woke up at all. Second is to thank my dear departed Irish grandfather for the legacy of blarney that helped me talk the paramedics into passing the closest trauma center and taking me to the hospital where my OB-GYN has privileges.

Somebody who sounds an awful lot like me screams when the baby in green scrubs digs to China via my shoulder.

"Sorry, ma'am. Just need to probe to see how deep that bullet is. I'm sure you understand that we need to be cautious about how much pain medication we give you because of the baby."

I bite my cheek to keep from blurting out that I'm sure he understands the only reason I don't kill him is that I already have three homicide cases on my desk.

No Christmas angel could possibly look more beautiful than my overworked OB-GYN hovering over me as the gurney creaks down the hall toward surgery.

"Michaela, I just reviewed the ultrasound. We've got the first of two doses of steroids on board to give us an edge if the trauma causes you to go into premature labor, but I'm confident those little lungs are mature enough. The anesthesiologist will take every precaution to be sure the babies aren't in jeopardy during your surgery."

Did she say babies, as in more than one? Something in the IV sends me floating before I can ask.

When I wake up again, the three most important men in my life are in the room.

Gregg leans over, kisses me on the forehead and grumbles that his mother warned him not to marry a cop. The usually stoic ex-Marine doesn't make excuses for his wet cheeks, doesn't have to repeat what the doctors told him about how lucky his wife is. I overheard the nurses talking about the bullet fragment that missed my heart by a fraction of an inch.

Sucharskey, my partner for more years than I've been married, brushes away the 'sweat' that magically gathered only under his eyes and whispers in my ear that one of the dead perp's accomplices is safely in Madison Street Jail. That means the other two are still out there.

Shorter than most seven-year-olds, my stepson proudly reports that he read the sign forbidding visitors under twelve and figured out how to get in anyhow. "I just told 'em I was thirteen, Mom."

Even though he's lived with us ever since the honeymoon and I've always considered him more son than step, this is the first time Stevie ever called me "Mom." He has more than a trace of 'sweat' under his eyes too.

"I'm sorry I gave you guys such a scare. When can I get out of here?"

"They want to keep you overnight at least."

"Gregg, your mother will be in here three days. I haven't got anything near ready!"

"Michaela, you aren't going to jump up out of that bed and do Christmas. The doctors say you'll need a lot of therapy before you'll be able to bathe and dress yourself. When I told them you were left-handed, they couldn't even promise you'll be able to write again."

The social worker/case manager/God in a red velvet skirt and shiny green blouse demands I go to a skilled nursing center. I nod obediently until she disappears, then pick up the phone and arrange for in-home therapy and some part-time help.

Stevie's grandmother will have a Merry Christmas, enjoying every minute of making me feel like a total failure ... again! She's been the mother-in-law from hell ever since Gregg put the wide gold band on my finger.

I'd promised myself that this visit would be different. Surely her heart would melt when she saw my belly bulging with Gregg's baby. Then I would impress her by cooking the turkey to perfection (HER way of course). Slow-roasted in a low oven all night long, then turned up for the last hour to brown it to a food editor's picture-perfect crisp. The buffet of intricate side dishes I'd practiced one by one all year long would convince her that I was a worthy daughter-in-law after all.

Just this once, I wouldn't even whine that my idea of a perfect Christmas would be waking up to the heavenly aroma of Mom's special orange cinnamon rolls with caramel icing. Looking forward to ending the day with a big pan of her secret recipe lasagna to enjoy with everything-but-the-kitchen-sink tossed salad and garlic cheese bread.

Best-laid plans and all that. Trying to find a comfortable position in the hospital bed, I convince myself the "helper" I hired will produce a real Christmas miracle, the perfect dinner I planned down to the last perfect radish rose.

Reality crashes like Santa's sleigh when I finally get home and it takes me almost an hour to guide this anything but Martha Stewart through the simple steps of making Stevie a grilled cheese sandwich.

I can only pray that "light housekeeping" means she can at least shovel through the top layer of clutter and stash it before Gregg's mother arrives. Surely, two days will give us enough time for that.

It doesn't take a seasoned homicide detective to figure out whose freshly polished fingertips are drumming on the doorbell barely an hour later.

"Grandma Gypsy!" Stevie helpfully lets her in.

"Michaela." Is it imagination or is there the slightest trace of 'sweat' and mascara trickling down her cheeks? No candy apple nail polish! Her favorite spa is slipping. No wonder she cut her annual stay short.

"Gypsy, I'm so sorry. I'd planned the perfect Christmas dinner ..."

"Not to worry, dear. I'll take care of everything."

"I didn't even get to pick up the fresh turkey or do the rest of the shopping."

"I rented a car. Took the liberty of doing a bit of shopping on my way over. Stevie, could you help unload the bags?"

Too tired to even worry about what Gypsy must think of the clutter, what she's doing to my kitchen, I drift in and out of sleep.

The occupational therapist wakes me to introduce me to the torture of range of motion exercises.

"Nothing over your head until you see the surgeon next week. You'll do twenty reps of each of these exercises three times a day." He hands me a plastic tub of neon red goop. "This is TheraPutty. I'll leave you a sheet of suggested exercises, but the important thing is to keep your fingers moving as much as possible. Try to form a ball with just the one hand. Roll a string on the bedside table. I'll be back Friday to check on your progress."

Sleep again. This time, it's Gypsy waking me with a delightful steaming bowl that smells like ginger and garlic. Perfectly clear broth almost overwhelmed with cilantro, carrots, crunchy Chinese peapods, light-as-a-feather noodles and moist chunks of chicken. If my ever-so-perfect mother-in-law weren't sitting right here, I'd lick the bowl!

It seems a shame to have to follow it with the dreadful supplement drink the doctors insist I force down with every meal. Where is that deceptively small can that seems to grow larger with every horrible sip?

Gypsy disappears with my empty bowl and comes back with a tall glass topped with whipped cream. "Try this."

"What is it?"

"The can of sludge from the hospital mixed with chocolate syrup and ice cream. Did it work?"

"Like magic. Thank you. You're going to spoil me."

"My pleasure. That's what mothers are supposed to do."

"But I always thought ..."

"Michaela, it wasn't your fault we didn't get along. When Gregg married Stevie's mother, I turned myself inside out to be the mother that girl never had. It broke my heart every bit as much as it Gregg's when she divorced him. I just couldn't let myself get hurt like that again."

"I would never do anything to hurt Gregg or Stevie. Or you. You must know that by now, Gypsy."

"Not on purpose."

"Gypsy, I've been a cop for over a dozen years. Until this happened, nobody's ever shot at me. I've only fired my gun for practice or skills recertification. I'm not sure I'd change anything if I could. If my partner and I hadn't stopped at that convenience market, the manager would be dead. She's got a family, too!"

"I didn't mean to start an argument. We've had more than our share of those over the years. I decided before the shooting that it was high time I stopped protecting my backside and started being a good mother-in-law. It may take me a while to break some bad habits."

"We've got all the time in the world. Is there anything a beached whale with one good flipper can do to help with Christmas dinner?"

"Everything's under control."

"Should have guessed. My poor kitchen must be in a state of utter shock to have a pro on premises."

"Surely you don't think that I'm a whiz in the kitchen just because I've been a food editor since God was a boy? I'll bet your mother and you could cook circles around me. Gregg always said he would have starved to death if it weren't for frozen fish sticks and hot dogs."

"But Christmas ..."

"Was the one meal I HAD to get right. The Dragon Lady drilled it into me, one recipe at a time. Unless there was tinsel in my living room and a mother-in-law in the guestroom, most of my 'cooking' was done in front of a computer. You forget I was a working mother just like you."

"But the wonderful soup ..."

After Gregg's father passed away, I discovered it wasn't much fun to go out to eat alone so I started puttering in the kitchen. Practice makes perfect, as they say."

Santa comes early. Sucharskey drops by with a brand new laptop fully equipped with software and a connection to the department's database.

"It's for the boss. His wife decided my apartment was the one safe place to hide his gift. He surprised her with a ski trip so I figured we'd just get it all ready for him to use when he gets back. While you're testing it, you might pursue a few leads on our perp's known associates. There are a bunch of convenience store employees who'd consider that the best Christmas present of all."

"Deal. Why don't you join us for the traditional Christmas Eve dinner of take-out pizza and peppermint ice cream? I ought to have some pretty solid information to share by then."

I carefully pick around the green pepper that conspires with the tomato sauce to create a Christmas colored pizza. Ever since I've been pregnant, peppers give me heartburn. Not the slightest bit of guilt when I ask for an extra piece of pizza and two more scoops of peppermint ice cream. Plenty of time to worry about getting back into a size 6.

Gypsy takes Stevie for a ride to see Christmas lights so Santa and I have a chance to make sure everything will be ready for tomorrow morning. Sucharskey makes a couple of phone calls to be sure the right people know just where to look for our suspects. With any luck at all, they'll have lowest responsive bidder bracelets to wear by Christmas morning.

My Irish grandfather's blarney fails me miserably. Despite my very best wheedling, Gregg refuses to even consider taking me to church tonight. He insists midnight mass will be celebrated on TV this year. I'm too tired to protest, fall asleep long before I hear the familiar words and beautiful music.

Sunshine filtering through the curtains insists it's morning. I can hear by the muffled squeals and rustling of paper that Stevie didn't wait for me to open his presents.

Something's wrong! There's not a hint of slow-roasted turkey aroma no matter how hard I sniff. Must still be dreaming. It smells exactly like my mother's special orange cinnamon rolls.

Gypsy says Sucharskey called to share the wonderful news; all the perps are in custody. She hands me a Santa Claus tray. A perfectly folded green napkin with a real candy cane ring around it. Two still warm orange cinnamon rolls drizzled with caramel frosting on a bright red plate. A Christmas tree mug with more milk than coffee. Freshly squeezed orange juice. Who could ask for more?

"Merry Christmas!" Gypsy's lips aren't moving. It's not her voice either.

"Mom! What a wonderful surprise. You even made your wonderful rolls."

"And ruin this beautiful manicure? Not on your life!" My mother waves her candy apple frosted nails just like she's a Hollywood star showing off her diamonds.

"Gypsy?"

"Taste them, Michaela; the suspense is killing me."

"Exquisite!" I proclaim, far too happy to worry about talking with my mouth full.

"The real test will come later. I THINK I made your mother's lasagna."

"You gave my mother your annual week at the spa."

"Absolutely correct, Detective. When I knocked on her door to beg her to teach me to make your favorite dishes, we started talking. Turns out your mother had never been to a spa. We decided to trade ... my cooking classes for her spa vacation."

It's not sweat running down my cheeks. I'm not even going to pretend it's hormone overload. "Gypsy, nobody has ever given me such a special Christmas present. I don't know how to begin to thank you."

"Let me stick around and help a bit until after the babies are born. Your mother and I can share the guestroom."

Babies. Did she say babies, as in more than one? With all that's been happening, I never got a chance to ask my OB-GYN.

Copyright © 2004 Susanne Shaphren


About the Author
Susanne Shaphren's articles and fiction appear in a wide variety of print and online venues. She has an essay in the December issue of Dana Literary Society Online Journal, a story in the December Monthly Short Stories, and a mystery in the Winter edition of Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine. Her short story, "Arrangements," appears in the book, Mystery Writers of America Presents Show Business is Murder.


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

Fiction Short Story

by Sara Hoskinson Frommer

Santa's Break

Cheryl hung the "Feeding my reindeer" sign on its hook and escaped before one more proud mama could plop a terrified child on her lap. Her stomach was growling enough to terrify any child, and her full bladder had threatened disaster the last time a little boy had kicked her in the belly. She was getting too old for this, she thought. Only the pillow that filled out her Santa suit had rescued her.

She returned waves without slowing down. At the door, she heard a shrill voice behind her cry, "Mommy, why is Santa Claus going in the girls' bathroom?" No way around that one. Mommy was on her own.

The store didn't have an employees' lunchroom, and between the beard and the kids' ownership of Santa, Cheryl had given up trying to eat in any public place. The ladies' room smelled clean, and by now she had it down to a routine. If she was going to spend her lunch hour in a stall, she was at least going to be comfortable.

Having relieved her aching bladder, she washed her hands, retreated into the stall nearest the door, hung her beard on the coat hook, and unbuttoned her red jacket enough to reach into the pillow under it. It wasn't a pillow, exactly, but a padded substitute for a bag or backpack. When she'd helped the women's society at Community Church make Santa suits to rent out as a Christmas fundraiser, she'd appreciated their design, which made it easy to add padding as needed for the Santa to fit the suit. Cheryl certainly needed the padding, but some of hers was unorthodox. Now she pulled out the insulated bag in which she'd kept a cheese sandwich, apple, and Coke cold all morning, and a whodunit for entertainment. She wished the toilet had a lid, but the fake fur on the edge of her jacket kept the rim from digging into her.

"You in there, Cheryl?" The voice coming from beside her belonged to her friend, Barbara, who owned the store and had begged her to do the job.

"Yup." Cheryl recognized Barb's long, slender legs and feet under the divider between their stalls. Her own polished black boots had to be visible from Barb's side.

"I hope you didn't leave anything out here. We've had some thefts in the store, and I don't mean shoplifting. People are remarkably careless with their stuff."

"Thanks for the warning." Can't get much safer than my belly pack, Cheryl thought. Her wallet was tucked inside it. "Maybe you ought to put up a sign."

"I hate to do that. Don't want to alarm the customers."

Better that than have them mad at you when they lose stuff, Cheryl thought, but she didn't argue. Barb would do it her own way. She always had.

"I'll keep my eyes open," Cheryl told her friend. "Who knows, I might see something."

"Thanks."

For a stakeout, it could be worse, Cheryl thought. Beats sitting in a car somewhere. I've eaten, and the plumbing couldn't be handier. What do cops do about that little problem, anyway, especially the women?

She still had some time coming on her lunch hour. She opened her book, but conscientiously checked the crack between her door and the frame whenever she heard the restroom door open. Boring, that's what a real stakeout must be, without anything to read. Girls fixing their makeup giggled over cute boys, children asked mothers to wipe their bottoms, and mothers struggled with more kids and burdens than they had hands for.

"Watch my shopping bags and purse, Jenny," one such mother said and went into a stall with a toddler, but the attention of her four-year-old wandered immediately to the ladies' room door.

"Mommy! Santa Claus is in here!" she cried.

What's she talking about? Cheryl wondered. I'm in here, not out there. Then she saw him. Another Santa suit, almost identical to hers, but with a more realistic-looking beard.

"Ho, ho, ho!" the jolly old elf boomed out.

Cheryl had worked hard on her ho, ho, ho, but she hadn't yet made it sound so deep and resonant. No wonder the beard looked real. This Santa was a man!

"Have you been a good girl?"

The child was instantly won over. "Oh, yes, Santa, I've been very good. I'm helping my mommy now."

"Then you'll find just what you want on Christmas morning." Santa patted her on the head, turned, and left as quickly as he'd come.

Jenny stared after him.

But Cheryl stared at the shelf on which Jenny's mother had left her purse. Empty.

She pulled herself together as quickly as she could and hurried out of her stall. "Where did he go?" she asked the little girl.

Open-mouthed, Jenny could only point to the door while her mother came out of her stall and screamed, "My purse! Santa took my purse!"

Cheryl, her beard half-crooked, ran from the room. She had to spot him, and she had to tell Barb.

How hard could it be to see a man in a Santa suit?

Impossible, it seemed. The man had vanished into thin air, but the woman whose purse he had stolen was on Cheryl's heels, yelling "Stop that Santa!"

Cheryl stopped. A crowd was gathering. Thank goodness, Barbara came toward them.

"I didn't take her purse," she told Barb, as calmly as she could. "There was a man in a Santa suit in the ladies' room. Her purse disappeared when he left."

The mother whirled on her little girl. "Jenny, is that true? Did you see another Santa Claus?"

Jenny frowned. "Santa said I'd get what I want for Christmas."

Cheryl squatted down to her eye level. "Do I look like that Santa, Jenny?"

"Will you bring me a new Barbie?"

Cheryl hated to do it. "No, honey, I'm not the real Santa. I'm just one of Santa's helpers." She stood up.

Jenny's eyes filled with tears. "But you promised!" She was no help. She couldn't tell one red suit with fur trim from another.

Her mother hugged her. "It's all right, Jenny. I'm sure Santa will bring you a Barbie." She looked daggers at Cheryl.

The crowd had grown. A security officer was coming toward them now. No point in resisting arrest, if he even had the authority to arrest her.

Then Cheryl saw him. On the edge of the crowd, near the entrance to the men's room, was a stout man with a white beard. A real one. And black leather boots under his tweed trousers. He carried a shopping bag.

"Barb," she said, and pointed. "There he is." All heads turned. "That's the man."

Barbara nodded and spoke to the security officer. Cheryl followed them over to the man.

"We need to check your bag, sir," the officer said.

"Certainly." The man handed it over, a little smile on his face.

He's sure they won't find anything there, Cheryl thought. But he wouldn't have left it in the men's room, even if he had to stash his Santa suit there. "Ask him to open his jacket," she said confidently.

Barb nodded, and the officer asked him.

Now the bearded man sputtered. "This is outrageous! I come here to buy Christmas gifts, and this is what I get in return! I'm a busy man!"

"I hate to inconvenience you, sir," Barb said. "But this woman is another one of our customers, and she's lost all her money. We're only trying to find it. We can call in the regular police."

"You heard the woman," he boomed in his ho, ho, ho voice. "Search your Santa!"

Now the heads turned to Cheryl.

"Sure," she said, holding her arms out to the side. "I'm not going anywhere, and I'll be glad to be searched. But don't let him get away while you do it."

In the end, with the anger of the crowd rising, he had no choice. Not only the woman's purse, but three wallets and Santa's red pants and jacket took the place of the padding in the pillow Cheryl had been sure they would find under his jacket.

"How did you know?" Barb asked her afterwards.

"Easy," she said. "Underneath the whiskers, his face was thin. And his Santa suit was the twin of mine."

Copyright © 2004 Sara Hoskinson Frommer


About the Author
Sara Hoskinson Frommer is the author of five Joan Spencer mysteries, with a sixth, Death Climbs a Tree, due out in August, 2005. She lives in Bloomington, Indiana, where she is a charter member of the Bloomington Symphony Orchestra's viola section, which has absolutely nothing to do with this story. Visit her at http://www.sff.net/people/SaraHoskinsonFrommer. 


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Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz

This month it was very hard to pick just one Drabble to present. Here it is, on the topic of human connection, by Sandy Topzand.

"Something inside me wants to mess it up," he whispered, his face hard in my shoulder. His fists clutched my t-shirt.
"Can you tell me why?" I asked, holding him as he shuddered.
"I don't know. I don't know. What is it?" he begged. "You see things, I know you do. What is it?"
"It's your inner critic," I told him, and he wept and wept, the gates unlocked.
"Listen to me," I said, putting his hand over my heart. "I am for you. Can you feel it? I am for you."
He hesitated, then nodded, mute with sobs.

As I write this, Thanksgiving is nearly upon us. I hope for all of us that we are thankful for our Thanksgiving this year, no matter the squabbles that show us that nothing has changed, or disappointments with the consistency of the stuffing.

Sometimes a particular change in us has so far only taken place on the inside, and it's quite frustrating when even those we're closest to can't see that something big is going on in us. And, mysteriously, sometimes it's another person besides ourselves, even someone who's pretty new in our lives, who notices a change in us before we ourselves do. Maybe it's that we are more engaged in life, for instance.
 
Wouldn't this change in us have been real even if it hadn't been noticed by anyone else? Sure, it would have been. But when the newer you becomes outwardly visible so that someone besides you speaks up, then you know on a different level than before that a change is actually happening (even if you don't know where exactly it is that you're going with it). When someone besides you notices, you can see that you are not merely fooling yourself into thinking you've made a personal change when it's really only your imagination that's moved, and that you are not just stuck in a perpetual internal wash and rinse cycle, changing constantly and tortuously without getting anywhere.
 
And, what if it is true that we don't know what we want to do with our newly changing self? Are we supposed to know? That's not just an idle question. To the extent that we don't know, we might merely drift along, thus giving up the sort of security that comes from setting and achieving life goals. But if, on the other hand, we know rigidly just and exactly what we want, that sort of knowing might take away some of the spontaneity that allows us to get from the world what we need when we need it. You might think, for example, at age 50, that you want to live in New York City, so that you can realize your ongoing and unexamined romantic teenage dream of starring in Broadway musicals. Yet, in making that quest, you might miss chances to find an even truer version of yourself that you might have if you were to quiet the voice of the acting ambitions long enough to listen to what life had to offer now. It might still be Broadway, or it might be Peace Corps. But you'd never know if you didn't listen.
 
Here's another example. It's expensive to live on the west coast, but the climate there is perfect for your needs, your family is close by, and you won't be able to get back into its obscenely expensive real estate market (which is much of your planned source of future security) if you sell your home to leave. Yet, you're scrimping to stay, and there is a low-income housing project going up right down the street, which could either drive down your home value, or itself become your next home, or each in turn. Do you follow your sense of adventure and find a place hundreds or thousands of miles away that suits you and your financial condition, or do you dig in and get stubborn and passionate about making it work where you are and, regardless of the risk of losing it anyway, make the place you are in your own?
 
Recklessness can sometimes be romanticized. Myself, I tend to romanticize the ease of living that in this mood I remember having had in my early 20s, when nearly always I easily followed one path or another, this job or that one, this guy or the other one—as I remember it, without examining the memories too closely, never feeling stuck or indecisive. I sometimes mercifully forget the terrible misery and confusion of the consequences of a few of my decisions back then. 

Here's my question: How do we move forward with our life changes without totaling ourselves by crashing into the walls of too much recklessness on the one hand, or too much caution, on the other? Balance is our theme for the next Drabble, which will be a 100-word (excluding title) story illustrating balance, rather than a piece about balance. Read the Guidelines, and then send your drabbles to: drabble@wvu.org. See you all next time.


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Recognitions

Joan McNulty Pulver

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

Donna Sundblad, otherwise known to her fellow writers at Writers’ Village University as Birdie, received an email from U. S. Legacies asking for a Christmas story. From her own personal slush pile, she pulled “The Forty Dollar Christmas,” a true story that took place during hard times. It focuses on the unselfishness of two children willing to give up any hope of receiving a gift by donating the family's measly forty dollars they set aside so that their teenage aunt can return home for Christmas.

“I hadn't intended to submit this story, but they contacted me to see if I had an appropriate story. I sent it in, not sure that it would qualify. I heard back from them the following day thanking me for my submission and letting me know it will appear in the December issue! I was stunned. I guess I prepare for rejection so well that when I'm accepted I'm twice as excited.”

Donna always dreamed of being a writer, until she approached her fiftieth birthday and asked herself what she was waiting for. Enrolling in Writers' Village University provided the structure and mentoring to get her moving in the right direction.

“My skills developed and I learned the discipline of setting goals to keep moving my abilities forward. One of my first writing goals was setting aside twenty minutes a day, four days a week to devote to the craft. I've had fiction and non-fiction published. Both give me a thrill. Fiction is fun to create, while true-life stories are fun to capture. They are history in the making.”

She has new goals now. Donna writes at least 2,000 words per day, four days a week, on either her novel or her non-fiction book, and she is an editor for both ePress-online and T-zero: The Writer's E-Zine. She plans to embark on a career as a freelance editor in 2005. Visit Donna’s website at http://www.theinkslinger.net.

Cynthia Borris, author of No More Bobs, submitted two stories to Chicken Soup. “Bare Bottoms and Dancing Toes” will be in Chicken Soup for the Recovery Soul and “The Fisherman” will be in Single Parent Soul. The first will be released this month and the other in January of 2005.

She submitted her resume to Joaquin Valley magazines, two San Francisco Bay Area upscale publications. She is the humor columnist for the Inside Livermore Valley and Inside San.

“Life is good. I tell you, one never knows what a submission will bring. When I sent in my resume, I had no idea I'd end up with my own humor column. After all, they were advertising for “About Town” article writers. They didn't even know they wanted humor until my story landed on their desk.”

Cynthia joined WVU in October 1999. A member of Creative Energy Unlimited, she posts as Cindi where she says she learned the tools of the trade, discovered camaraderie and above all, “realized it is okay to be me.” Visit Cynthia’s website at http://www.cynthiaborris.com.  Her advice to writers: “Always, follow your heart and go for it! One never knows what's at the other end.”

P. June Diehl’s recent publishing successes include "Marching Through Time" and "Julie," two short stories, and two poems, "I Gaze into a Mirror Dark" and "Staying Behind - Autumn 1862"), which will be published in early spring 2005 (title of the anthology to be determined) by Infinity Publishing.

"Red Riding Hood," "Duchess," and "Snowflakes" (one short story and two poems) published in Dream Makers (an anthology) appeared in July 2003, published by Muddy Puddle Press. In 2003, Moon Mist Publishing published her chapbook of poetry, Dragon Words.

“When I first found out I was to be published, I felt a mixture of surprise and excitement! I've had a variety of articles published the past couple of years in Writer's Crossing, Pearls of Writing Newsletter, Just About Write, etc., and was named Poet of the Month in May 2003 at Aspiring Writers Magazine.” Learn more about June at her website, I Write for You.

June has several favorite writers, among them is Madeleine L'Engle. “I knew I wanted to write since about the age of 9, but after reading A Wrinkle in Time, I strongly identified with Meg and knew that I could be anything I set my mind to doing. I discovered Robert A. Heinlein's juvenile fiction when I was 11, and I've been hooked on SF & Fantasy since that time.”

She plays keyboards and crochets. “I like to play my piano when I need to think about a character, a scene, or a plot, and I can use my music to set the right mood for what I'm working on. I also use crochet the same way—not only taking a break from my pc, but using the time to let my mind work on my writing.”

June joined WVU November 12, 1999. She started out taking a lot of fiction-related classes and joined the Artistic License group. “The group has provided me the space to grow my writing in mother-may-I giant steps. The members of AL are a special group of writers: supportive, motivating, and honest. I would not be the writer I am today without the members of AL encouraging me to do more with my writing.”

Sr. Mary Joan Meyer, FSM wrote a book of poetry, titled Contemplative Solitude, published by Contemplation Corner Press, Ashland City, Tennessee (© 2004)

“I was shocked and thrilled when I found out it would be published. Someone else whom I had shared the work with told the publisher about it and he wanted to see it and liked it.”

Joan enjoys reading haiku and hokku. Her favorite poets are R. H. Blyth and Haiku by Basho, Buson, and Issa. She likes to walk in nature noticing everything in creation, trying to capture the experiences in a few choice words. She joined Writers’ Village University about two years ago. “I have taken a number of the poetry courses and they have refined my skills.”

She is a chaplain in a 400-bed hospital. “Often I will reflect on my patient visits and write a poem about my feelings or the patients' and families’ feelings and experiences.”

“After being diagnosed with lupus in 1995, my life took on a new direction. The gift of poetry opened up within me and has been affirmed by others. I began reflecting on my pastoral visits and jotting down feelings and images in poetic form. I love to walk in nature and began writing haiku on my retreat weekends. I hope my readers can meet God and be stirred by the messages or insights expressed in these poems.”

Congratulations, Donna, Cynthia, June and Joan. 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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Poetics

Compiled by Glennis Hobbs

Time And Research For Poetry

This is the second 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 long have you been writing poetry?

Chris:
I started in high school and dreamed of becoming a great writer. I worked on the school newspaper and poetry journal. Then, in college, I would write whenever I was bored with a lecture. I once wrote a poem during the GRE exam after I figured I didn't know the math portion anyway. I pretty much stopped writing after college because of the demands of teaching and raising a family. I came back to it when I took the free writing course offered at Writers' Village and then stumbled on the advanced poetry classes. That was about three years ago. I needed an outlet for my time since my children were no longer needing it.

Gwen:
It’s probably been 7 years that I’ve been writing poetry. I got turned onto poetry because of the teacher of the advanced creative writing course I took for 3 years at a local senior center. Before that, I just about detested poetry probably due to less-than inspiring teachers in high school and college—or perhaps I wasn’t ready for poetry then!

Janice:
I have been writing poetry for about 18 years, but most vigorously for 15 years.

Lori:
I have been writing poetry about 3-4 years.

Mo:
Poetry started for me with two classes here: Freeing the Poet Within with Carol Malley and Linda Austin and The Pleasures of Reading Poetry with Arlene Lawson and Bob Wands. I thought to myself "Why not try them?" I am so glad I did. It's probably been three years at least.

Rolly
Since 1999 when I joined WVU! It seems like it has been for ages and I still commit the same mistakes. Talk about being a slow learner, huh?

Sarah:
A little over a year and a half.

Glennis:
I dabbled when I was in my early twenties and wrote poetry that makes me cringe. I got involved in serious writing when I took a creative writing course with Dr. Maara Haas in 1973. After being hit by a car, I wanted to do something that would fill Wednesday evenings while my fiancé was at Toastmaster meetings. After I won her silver apple award for the poet who suffered most beautifully I began to realize that I might actually have some ability as a poet. I made the mental transition to thinking of myself as a writer when I took classes with Charles Wilkins in 1983.

In 1985 I was chosen to work in the Manitoba Writers Guild with George Amabile and this is when I switched to mainly writing poetry. It wasn’t until 1998 when I became ill that I started hanging out in the T. S. Eliot Room which was then the place for poets to hang out at WVU. I couldn’t concentrate on prose so wrote mainly poetry, but was ready to give up on it. Thanks to the encouragement of poets such as Tom Spencer, I became a serious poet. When Carol Malley and Karli Shanklin offered the P104 course, I took it and I’ve been a poet first and foremost.

Question: How much research do you do on the subject of your poem?

Chris:
Sometimes I spend a lot of time researching since many of my ideas come from the news or newspaper stories that I have read. I will study the form and read about it before I try it or I will refer to reference books. Most of my researching is done on-line.

Gwen:
Since my poems usually come from experiences, I don’t do much research other than check dates, use the thesaurus for word choices, and use spell-checker. If my poem is based on an article, then I check facts with the article as I’m writing my poem.

Janice:
If I’m writing about a subject that is not familiar to me, I do some serious research. If my chosen subject is familiar, I often check a good dictionary or thesaurus to be sure a seldom-used word or phrase fits in with the text correctly. In the latter case, I also tend to research for minor details.

Lori:
Depends. My storm-chasing poems come from my “field work." If I’m interested in a subject or idea of a poem, I might do more research. But usually poems stem from an experience.

Mo:
I don't think I've done much research except to study a particular form like haiku or a sonnet. I think it's a good idea to consider. I always have a thesaurus handy.

Rolly:
Honestly, I barely do research. I rely on prior knowledge, experiences and the like. I don’t think I have the luxury of time to do a lot of research for a poem. My works are not the intellectual type but are more visceral (if I know what the word means) Mundane as it may sound, that is the truth and I believe you can feel it in my works. I am still concerned about writing a poem while most of you are already on forms and substance. Very basic.

Sarah:
Hardly any. For a poem I wrote recently, I did do a little web surfing to find out what color a meadowlark’s eggs are. Otherwise, if trips to the thesaurus count, I do that kind of research.

Glennis:
For poems that are written as a reaction to an experience, I don’t do research.

For persona and narrative poems such as my Biblical women poems, these have come about as a result of my association with my Bible study groups. One of my passions is reading royalty biographies, especially about Queen Victoria and her family. I read anything and everything I can find. These have resulted in some of my royalty persona poems.

I will spend hours researching and surfing for information. It all depends on the topic of the poem.


The 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.


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Poetics Presents

Marlene Barth

Marlene Barth was born in the Bronx, New York, but lived in Florida most of her life. She presently resides in Atlanta, GA with her husband and 93-year-old mother. She has raised five children and has nine grandchildren. She worked as an executive secretary most of her life. Retired in 2002, she been writing ever since and loves to write poetry and fiction—mysteries and children’s stories. She is currently working on three different ideas for novels..

Nana and the Garden

The Garden is an exceptional place,
Where hands and fingers mingle with the earth;
And birds and butterflies sing songs of mirth.

My Nana and I plant peas, squash and beans,
Cucumbers, tomatoes, carrots and corn.
She said she has always done this, it seems,
Before her marriage, and before I was born.

She loves to play, plant, and dig in the dirt;
Says gardening clears cobwebs from the mind.
I like to watch the Bluebirds and the squirrels,
As I gather all the rocks that I find.

Today we saw two bluebirds and two sparrows,
Each bird was choosing a house for their nest.
Since we have four houses in our backyard,
Oh, I wonder which ones will pass the test!

Our yard has many colored butterflies,
They flit in and out of all the flowers.
We also have bright crimson berry plants,
That appear to sparkle in gentle showers.

Today I took down, and cleaned all feeders,
Let them dry, then filled them full of clean seed.
Nana filled the ones for the hummingbirds,
With the right amount of sweet-water they need.

In the evening, Nana, mom, dad, and I
Sit together on our screened-in porch.
Outside, in order to keep bugs away,
My father will light our usual torch.

We laugh, and talk; we have a lot to say
Before we bid goodnight to the birds and squirrels,
And watch them go merrily on their way.
I bend my head in prayer for God’s gift
Of our garden - on this exceptional day.

Copyright ©2004 by Marlene Barth




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Until further notice, only plain text submissions in the body of the email will be considered.
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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.

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

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

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

What We Publish

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

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

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

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

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

We will automatically correct obvious typos such as “ton” for “not” and may correct simple agreement problems. For anything beyond tha