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 The Writer's E-Zine

 

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

Jayda McTyson

Is Critiquing For You?

I'm a writer, so why on earth would I want to take on the job of an editor? Perhaps you have asked yourself this question at some point in time. I would say—in reply—that every ambitious writer works constantly at improving his skill, but few realize that critiquing offers an underutilized, yet excellent method of improving one's writing. Many of us hesitate when asked to do a critique, however, this exercise offers the opportunity to develop several specific skills, which would not normally be considered part of a writer's repertoire.

If you read the written word, provided it is not highly technical information, it is a given that you are qualified to evaluate what you have read. Think about this in relation to a delicious meal you've had at a great restaurant and how you raved to your friends about that meal. If you gave a good description, it is likely that your friends were almost able to visualize, taste and smell the meal you described. Consider a critique as being along similar lines. When you read, various emotions and reactions are stirred based on the material being read. In critiquing, you convey these impressions, criticisms and helpful information to the author. The feedback helps him to go back to the drawing board and create a better and clearer picture for the reader. There are specific ways in which critiquing helps the writer to master his art form.
 
Sharpens Observational and Analytic Skill
 
Writing is a sure way to sharpen the mind. My observational powers have grown significantly compared to when I first started writing. This, as a direct result of always being on the lookout for interesting and varied subjects to put down on paper. In order to have a constant supply of subjects on which to write, it is necessary that you notice much more than the casual observer, and doing critiques is a good way to develop this habit.
 
Reading another person's work with the intent of providing feedback also develops your analytical skills. Read as an ordinary individual, but at the same time with the aim of seeing that the story is tied together as a complete and therefore cohesive unit. Does the story wander unnecessarily? Are all the plot points resolved at its conclusion? Are there too many characters to keep track of? Is the language clear and crisp? Is the story line plausible and does it hold your attention? Do all the characters have meat on their bones? Are there inconsistencies? These are some of the characteristics we usually look for in a well crafted story. Knowing what we admire goes a long way in assisting us to make valid comments in critiquing a story or article.
 
Improves Language and Writing Skills
 
While your writing style surely differs from mine, the one common goal we share is to increase our level of expertise. Critiquing gives the opportunity to study use of language, including how to use words to greatest effect. Some writers use the English language with great skill. Their work is a pleasure to read. Two things happen when we read works written by such authors. First, words evoke images and the pictures created by having read a creative piece of writing arouse our imagination. Second, we learn as we are reading. It is impossible to read a beautiful piece of writing without being moved. As a writer, I look at the flow of words and try to emulate—mind you, not plagiarize—that writer. We may not always get the same results, but we do well to try to learn from sterling examples set before us as we practise our art.
 
Improves Storytelling Skills
 
The forum in which critiquing is done offers a wonderful way of finding writing sparks, exchanging ideas and learning more about the craft of writing. There is an unexpected benefit for the writer if he is able to find inspiration in the material that is being critiqued. While this is not the intention of critiquing, it is possible to find ideas everywhere, since new twists are put on old tales every day. As long as the writer is cognizant of the fact that his inspiration cannot be in the form of plagiarism and that he has to impart something of himself to make his writing unique, then it is perfectly acceptable to find stimulation in the material being critiqued.
 
In providing this service, the critic may also pass on threads of ideas that may not have been completely explored. The exchange that takes place in this instance encourages brainstorming, which is a highly productive activity.
 
With each story that is critiqued, the writer becomes more familiar with the various elements that contribute to a superbly crafted story. At the outset, he must do some form of research in order to be able to do a creditable job. As he prepares and educates himself for the task at hand, he also gives himself adequate guidelines with which he will work. These become familiar tools and will help him bring all relevant points together when he sits down to plot his own stories.
 
A discerning eye is also developed, which assists the writer to decide which elements of his story will work together successfully and those that won't. He will also see where there are gaping holes in his tales and be able to take corrective action, having a trained and practiced eye from making repeated assessments of pieces written by other authors.
 
In being able to make an in-depth and thorough evaluation of his own writing, an author also has the unquestionable advantage of being able to spot his mistakes before they make their way to an editor's desk.
 
Develops A Useful Skill
 
While you are busy critiquing, you are adding another skill to your arsenal. Remember the saying 'Practise Makes Perfect'? We are often reluctant to critique because we feel we do not have the requisite skill. All the know-how you need is to be a discerning reader. If there are contradictions in a story, skilled reviewer or not, you will notice them. 
 
The more reviews you do, the better you will become. Develop your own style. Come up with a list of things you look for in a story or article. Consult your list as you conduct your reviews. Spend a little time and make your reviews as constructive, clear and helpful as you possibly can. The writer will appreciate your effort and some will be sure to reciprocate.
 
You can also develop your newly learnt skill by reading about the whole business of reviewing. Although you know what you like in a story, I would advise that you not do a single review before you do a little research. Read a few articles and/or tips on how to conduct reviews, but don't get bogged down with reading endless material on the subject unless that's your style. It is better to test the temperature of the water by dipping your toe in rather than diving headfirst into previously uncharted waters. Once you have a clear idea of what is expected, you can easily meet your obligations to your writing circle as you develop your newfound talent.
 
The act of conducting reviews serves as a means of developing a keener eye and a sharper mind, which helps you, the writer, improve the crafting of your stories. Your language skills will also get better as you become more exposed to the writing of talented authors whose work you will be reviewing. Apart from making a significant contribution to other people's work, through your input in their writing efforts, your new skill will also ensure that you become a much better writer.
 
 
About the Author
Jayda McTyson writes both fiction and non-fiction and has special interest in the art of writing, parenting and relationships.  She lives in sunny Jamaica and is always on the lookout for the makings of her next article or story.  Feel free to contact her at writesmith@fusemail.com   



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Craft of Writing

Lon Prater

Panned Helsing:
Bad Reviews That Can Save Your Fiction

By now everyone who wants to has had the chance to see Van Helsing, whether in a theater or on video. Few critics have had good things to say about the film, a fact that's easily understandable for many of those who saw it. The thing is, this monster-action movie isn’t without redeeming value, at least for us fiction writers. We lucky few can watch the writing horrors unfold and—if we pay attention to what didn’t work—gain a bit of insight into our own craft. Want fiction that doesn’t bite? Make sure you avoid the monstrous problems staked out by the Van Helsing reviewers below.
 
1. No one likes a coincidence-driven plot. "Unfortunately, all of the action falls apart in the final sequences, where coincidence plays far too big a role in helping our heroes defeat Dracula." [Rich Drees, Film Buff Online] How to fix it: Some minor (read: non-plot essential) coincidences can be made to feel more natural by subtly adding a dash of foreshadowing. In the case of coincidences masquerading as major plot points, look for ways that your character could accomplish his story goal through some action of his own. Extensive rewriting may be called for. If you've really painted yourself into a corner and can see no way that your character can extricate himself, it may be time to go back a couple chapters and start fresh.
 
2. Ditto for wildly improbable feats of skill. "There's one sequence around a stone bridge at Drac's castle where Beckinsale, Frankenstein, etc. are all swinging around with ease and no inertia on cables that have to be miles long, are attached to what must be mid-air, and are easily viewable on a dark and stormy night. That's how silly this all gets..." [Garth Franklin, Dark Horizons] How to fix it: If you're writing men's adventure, you can pretty much skip this one. For the rest of you, it's a simple fix, really: One good read-through by you or someone you trust should be enough to identify places where you go too far into Action Hero country. Once you know where the problems are, determine if replotting that entire section or just revising the passage in question would best fill the reality gap.
 
3. Don't let info-dumps masquerade as dialogue! "The dialogue is all exposition, filled with rhetorical conversations between characters that exist only to provide story background for our benefit...." [David Medsker, Bullz-eye.com] How to fix it: Read every line of dialogue out loud. Does it sound like a melodramatic Bond villain revealing his nefarious scheme, or a gothic heroine telling people things they already know? When dialogue is slathered too thickly with information, it kills the reader's willingness to finish your story. Parcel out the information sparingly in dialogue, and keep it sounding natural. Other things you can do with that data-dump are sprinkle it into thoughts, reactions and descriptions, or in many cases delete it as unnecessary to the plot.
 
4. Avoid seat-of-the-pants plotting and world-rules that change on the fly. "[T]hey seem to be making it up as they go along." [Rex Reed, New York Observer] How to fix it: A good outline will go a long way toward preventing this. For writers who love the joy of discovering their story (and story-world) as they write, it's still a good idea to keep basic story structure—beginning, rising action, climax, resolution—in the back of your mind as you write, and to make notes on decisions you come to in the heat of creating your story.
 
5. Subplots should complement your "big picture" plot, i.e., Don’t be afraid to delete a plot thread that isn’t working. "But the way to the count is crowded with multiple, confusing subplots. You're shunted from one earsplitting episode to another with barely a breath in between; none of them seem particularly connected." [Desson Thomson, Washington Post] How to fix it: After your first draft is finished, go section by section through your novel or story, writing down when each thread or subplot is introduced and what happens in it during each subsequent section. Write a one or two sentence summary of the subplot (max 25 words or so) as well as a three or four sentence summary of your overall plot. Delete or revise any subplots that you can't link to the big-picture plot or that seem to go nowhere. Yes, even if it's your favorite part and you think it reveals so much about your character that you couldn’t possibly live without it. The reason why: Everything your reader needs to know about your character is best revealed by their actions and reactions to the plot events.
 
6. Cool Stuff + Cool Stuff doesn't necessarily equal Really Cool Stuff. "Desperate to keep goosing the audience, he throws in Frankenstein, the Wolf Man and three of Dracula's bloodsucking brides. I'm surprised he didn't give Van Helsing a shot at Osama bin Laden. More, more, more adds up to less, less, less." [Peter Travers, Rolling Stone] How to fix it: Make a short list of the coolest creatures, devices, concepts, and other plot elements that you got to write about in the story; the stuff you were really jazzed about when the inspiration came to include it. Does it all hang together? If not, take a hard look at what works best for this story. Take out the ones that don’t seem to fit in well with the others, put the dispossessed "cool" concept somewhere in the back of your mind (and keep a written record too) where it can marinate. That cool idea may just be the seed of your next story!
 
7. The fictional world must make sense. "Why would anyone remain in a village that was continually used as a vampire feeding ground, even if the vampires "only" took a villager or two a month? Why would someone build a road right alongside a cliff and not put up any kind of railing?" [Rich Drees, Film Buff Online] How to fix it: Take a long hard look at the motives of every character (including those without speaking parts, and organizations/cultural institutions) and see if what they are doing in the story really makes sense, based on their selfish interests. Treat your setting as a silent character. It wouldn't make sense for a Giant's castle in a fairy tale to have man-sized weapons lying about, would it?
 
8. People like their stories to be about, well, people. "Everybody has issues, which is an interesting touch, but nobody builds compelling characterizations around them, which isn't interesting at all." [Bob Strauss, U-Daily News] This one may be the most important lesson to be learned from Van Helsing; it gets a second quote: "Nor is there a shred of psychology to the characters, human or otherwise, thus foreclosing any emotional connection with them." [David Sterritt, Christian Science Monitor] How to fix it: Remember those plot and subplot summaries you did up in #4 above? Read through everyone of them, and see if you can identify who is the most important subject in each sentence. In every scene of your story, someone is benefiting and someone is losing out. Make sure your reader can tell that your story is about those people, not just a displaced series of events that reads like a set of lab notes.
 
Unless of course they're Dr. Frankenstein's lab notes. On second thought, not even then.


About the Author
Lon Prater lives, writes and spends too much money on movies just five minutes from the Gulf of Mexico. His work has been accepted for publication in From the Borderlands, Flesh & Blood, Beyond Centauri, and numerous online zines. Somehow, he also manages to find time to run http://www.Neverary.com, a free webzine for writers and fans of speculative fiction.


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Craft of Writing

Donna Sundblad

Writing: Option or Objective - Setting Realistic Writing Goals

Dreams of seeing your by-line in print dance through your head. The New Year ushers in new hope with a fresh start. This is the year. You're going to achieve that illusive desire to be a writer. You push aside those unfinished projects and start with a clean slate. You've got a hot idea and can't wait to get started.

Is this new project doomed to gather dust with other unfinished undertakings filed away on your hard drive? What makes your hot idea fizzle and grow cold? Does everyday life get in your way? Do you allow a bout with writer's block to put your project on hold indefinitely? Did your dream die?

Let's go back to the start. You have all kinds of ideas, even keep them organized in an ideas file so that when the times comes you'll know exactly what to work on next. Yet, as the days slip by, your dream fades as the responsibilities of life crowd your schedule. The lack of progress and growth in your life as a writer leaves you disillusioned and unpublished. How do you break this cycle?

First, it's important to point out the difference between dreams and goals. According to the dictionary, a dream is a wild fancy or a hope, a condition or achievement that is longed for. On the other hand, a goal is the purpose toward which an endeavor is directed. It's an objective. The goal helps to achieve what is longed for.

Individual's aspirations differ and so do writer's goals. One person may wish to write a memoir while another may be interested it writing a column in the local newspaper. This article is not aimed at telling you what to dream, but how to set goals to make your dreams as an author a reality. The larger your dream, the longer it may take to achieve it. Don't let this discourage you. Instead, investigate what steps you need to take to accomplish your dream. Take what you learn into consideration as you set your goals.

The Big Picture
First, to set achievable goals, look at the big picture. If you want to write a novel but have never written a short story, you may have to consider the steps necessary to get someone to take a look at your novel manuscript when it is written. Most publishers want to see clips of your published work. They want to know what you have to offer. The big picture comes into focus. Goals for writing your novel may include writing and submitting short stories during the novel writing process. When the time comes to submit your novel, you'll have experience in the submission process and hopefully a couple of by-lines under your belt.

Another item to consider before taking on a new project is the market. Who is publishing what you are writing? Do they consider unagented submissions or do you need to find an agent?

You may be saying, "Hold on. I don't aspire to write a novel. I want to write for enjoyment." This desire still leads to questions. Are you writing? How often? Is there room for improvement? Basics like grammar and punctuation come into play. One of my first goals as a serious writer was to improve my craft. I signed up for on-line classes at Writers' Village University. Classes and study groups available on-line worked with my busy schedule. It forced me to step out of my comfort zone. For the first time in my life I allowed others to read and critique my work. My heart pounded as I hit the submit button for the first time, but I'd taken the step to meet my goal. Not only did I sign up for classes but I actively participated.

Setting Aside the Time
Most writers I know don't have the luxury of sitting in front of the computer for hours on end. Family, jobs and other commitments pull us in all directions. This accentuates the need for goals. If you think you're going to write but have no plan, you are doomed to be distracted by the things of life. You'll need to target specific areas.

In my case, I planned to write twenty minutes a day four days a week. This goal helped develop a routine of regular writing and I soon found that I wanted more. Today, I set a word count goal of 1,000 words a day as a minimum. When considering this aspect of setting goals, be realistic and consider what will work for you. Don't set inflexible goals so rigid that if you miss one day you can't catch up the next.

Don't put it off. Annual goals can be set any month of the year. I joined Writers' Village in July and set my goals accordingly. My writing calendar goes from July to July. If you read this article in March and feel inspired to get started, do it. There's no better time to get started than right now.

How to Do It
Now that you've identified your dream, it's time to outline the steps it takes to achieve it. The first step is to write down your yearly goal. For instance, if you have decided you want to see yourself published in the coming year, write something like, "See my work in print." If you've decided to write a novel, jot it down as a yearly goal using the working title.

In most cases, more than one yearly goal will come into play. Once you've decided what to write and how long or how much to write, you may want to consider where you'll submit your work. Make it a goal to do your homework. Network with other writers. Based on information I collected from other published authors, my goal to find a publisher or agent led me to a writer's conference. As a result, my novel, The Inheritance, is in the hands of two publishers for consideration.

Break it Down
Once you have your yearly goals in place, break down the steps necessary to reach them. This breakdown should reflect do-able monthly stepping stones. For instance, if you plan to write a novel and have researched your market, you'll have an idea how many words you plan to write in the year. Divided by twelve, this number becomes a monthly goal. It gives you a rule by which to measure progress.

If you plan to get something published this year, needless to say, you'll have to write something to submit. Not only this, but because statistically, as a freelance writer, one out of twelve submissions are accepted, you'll make a goal to submit more. What does this do? It pushes you into submitting at least once a month if not more to achieve your yearly goal.

After you've laid out your yearly and monthly goals, weekly goals follow a natural progression. Let's use writing the novel for our example. If your novel needs to be 100,000 words, that breaks down to roughly 8,333 words a month. That translates to a weekly goal of 2,000 words or so.

The trick is to set realistic goals. If you hope to have some clips to offer when you submit your novel in a year or two, take this into consideration and add it to your goals. From conception to the editing process, plan it and it will get done. Goals help usher you through the maze of mundane daily life and prod you to keep pushing the pen on the days when you don't feel like writing. If you actively pursue your goals, it's no longer an option to write. It's an objective.

Accountability
If you start out strong but end the year with a fizzle, you may want to consider an accountability partner or writing group. I facilitate a goals-oriented writer's group. We post our yearly goals at the beginning of the year, our monthly goals are due on the first of each month and our weekly goals each Monday.

Follow this same schedule. Write your goals down. Use them to track your progress. In our goals group, we encourage one another, and just knowing we have to report in once a week helps keep me on track. Whether you do it on your own or with others, write your goals down. Check back with your yearly goal. Reading your yearly goal each month helps keep your monthly goals on target. Be willing to make adjustments in your monthly goals to stay on track. This in turn helps to keep your weekly goals in line with your monthly goals and by the end of the year, the tangible results will have you looking forward to starting all over again.


About the Author
Donna writes short stories, articles on the craft of writing, and is in the process of editing her completed manuscript, Pumping Your Muse. This collection of writing exercises stretches creativity while building a fictional world and rough draft simultaneously. More information is available at her website www.theinkslinger.net.


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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

Merry Christmas? Bah! Humbug!
The Theatre of the Absurd

In Writing Humor: Creativity and the Comic Mind, Mary Ann Rishel delves into existentialism in addressing absurd humor. The existentialist views existence as meaningless, futile and rejects the concept of an afterlife. The Biblical quotation, “Remember man, that thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return,” ends there. No afterlife, no heavenly reward or eternal torture. We are born, we live, we die. End of story.

Existentialism is a post-World War II philosophy, with authors such as Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus writing books entitled Nausea, Being and Nothingness, The Plague and The Myth of Sisyphus. For those who haven’t read these books, I assure you there is not a bit of humor within their covers.

However, the mind is capable of finding humor in anything. I recall an attempted suicide pact between an 80-something-year-old man and his similarly aged wife. He was to shoot her and then himself. Unfortunately, the gun he used was older than the couple. He shot his wife in the head. Although she fell to the ground, the bullet had ricocheted off her curlers and merely stunned her. He placed the gun to his ear. The bullet lodged in his ear and both survived. Is this the ultimate failure? An inability to even voluntarily cease to exist? Or a sign that destiny should be left to an intangible creator and force? You must answer that for yourself. However, I laughed. A humorous tragedy.

Even those who ardently believe in a god, their religion, can write absurd fiction. The fiction writer lives in a world of imagination. Set aside your beliefs and assume that life is meaningless. Then sit down and write.

In this Season to be Jolly, I suffer. A psychologist diagnosed me as afflicted with SAD. Well, duh, Doc, I’m paying you two hundred bucks to tell me I’m sad? I know that, you virulent pustule. Let me give you some advice. Keep up this façade and someone will sue you. That advice just cost you three hundred. Cough up a hundred bucks, Doc.

He then explained that SAD is Seasonal Affective Disorder, caused by the shorter exposure to light in the winter months. He recommended that I purchase special light fixtures, which he happened to sell, for two grand. I kicked him in the groin and walked out.

After the state released me from jail last month, I was once again sad, depressed. I knew SAD was a fictitious disease created by psychiatrists and psychologists. Congress included this fictitious disease under the Full Employment for Quacks Bill, enacted into law in January of this year. Like multiple personality disorder, rarely diagnosed until the number of psychiatrists and psychologists exceeded the number of patients, the ever-expanding medical profession created SAD to attract even more new patients, thus enabling these underpaid wags to make their Porsche and yacht payments. SAD became a legitimate disease.

SAD? Get real! It’s the season itself. The season to be jolly is a fraud.

Nobody knows the precise date of Christ’s birth. We do know he wasn’t born on December 25th. So why pick December 25th, intentionally lie and perpetuate the lie until the lie became truth? Money. Another diabolical plot to assure that my wallet remained thin while the rich became richer.

While walking through town yesterday, I focused on the masks people wore. Many were smiling and laughing, seemingly as jolly as Scrooge’s imbecilic nephew. Others had the ordinary everyday look of the harried worker. Some folks appeared worried, anxiety-ridden and confused. A long line of stone-faced people stood outside the gun shop. Amazing. I thought I was the shop’s only customer.

I bumped into a beggar. I apologized profusely, stepped back a bit and reached for my wallet while I looked him over. Something was wrong. His clothes were rags yet he smelled like Obsession. My wallet slipped from my hands. I bent down to grab it and noticed he wore at least $600 Italian shoes. What’s going on here?

I stood up and stared at his disheveled clothing. I glanced at his eyes, adorned by Armani designer frames and what I’m certain were Varilux lenses. I needed to know.

“Sorry, sir, I honestly was trapped in a fog when I bumped into you. If you don’t mind, I’ll give you a twenty if you’ll sit down and have a cup of coffee with me. Talk a bit.”

He smiled, revealing snow white teeth and perfect alignment. He obviously once had a gifted orthodontist and presently a talented dentist.

“Sure thing, sir,”

We walked a few yards to Starbucks. I laughed when most customers disappeared upon seeing us. Hey, I thought. How to quickly get a seat anywhere? Bring a bum! Although I suspected this man was not really a bum.

“Thanks for the coffee, buddy,” he said, and began drinking his cappuccino. "Now fork over the twenty.”

I pulled out my wallet yet again and handed him a ten and two fives while asking, “What kind of bum can afford your shoes and glasses?”

He sprayed out the coffee in a fit of laughter. When his laughter died to a chuckle, he smiled and said, “What makes you think I’m a bum, buddy?”

“Well. You're out there begging and….” He interrupted before I could finish.

“Look, buddy, I was out there holding a can, looking pitiful. I never say a word. Folks walk past and throw money in, assuming I’m destitute. I don’t bother wearing a placard reading ‘Executive VP at the Marriott Corporation, earning 200 grand a year, needs more than he deserves. Fools like you just assume I’m broke. After I stand and hold out the can for four or five hours, I’ll walk to that parking lot down the road, hop in my Jag and drive home.”

We both broke into hysterical laughter. When it finally stopped, I asked, “200K a year, huh? So why do you do it?”

“I’m an amateur student of human behavior. Do you know what the average bum in this area earns per year?”

“No idea.”

“Over 30K per year. And that’s part-time. A dedicated bum can earn over 100K. I know a few who drive better cars than mine. My Marriott salary averages out to $3,850 per week. If I take a month of my vacation time during the season to be jolly, I collect 5K per week holding a can while looking pitiful. Tax free, buddy. Tax free! Not bad, huh?”

“Not at all. Not at all.”

I was suddenly overcome with nausea. I stood up, waved at the wealthy bum and left. The pedestrian traffic had increased. The mass of human bodies colliding, pushing, shoving and making liberal use of elbows, resembled bumper cars at an amusement park. Yet even what appeared to be the formation of a violent mob was filled with cries of “Merry Christmas, Ho-Ho-Ho,” and “'Tis the season to be jolly!” The line at the gun shop was longer. The crowd was overwhelming. I was pushed in so many directions, bouncing off one person to another, that I realized what the glimmering steel ball in a pinball machine felt as blind Tommy, the Pinball Wizard, racked up his score. I thought, this is madness. This is truly madness.

I thought I was thinking this. I was actually screaming it. People moved away in panic. I thought, Oh no, another holiday season spent behind bars, learning how to rape, pillage, loot, steal and kill. Suddenly jail felt preferable to this asylum. But then I noticed something that will forever stay with me.

Although many people were walking away swiftly, a few people were walking towards me. They were smiling, laughing, and I could swear the cartoon light bulb flashed over each head. The few turned into many and all began screaming, “This is madness! This is madness!”

A Howard Beale look-a-like stepped out of the movie, “Network,” and the chant changed to, “We’re mad as hell and we’re not gonna take it anymore! We’re mad as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore!”

A third crowd joined the chanters and the fleers, consisting of curious observers. Some eventually joined the fleers, some joined the chanters, while most remained observers. Most observers were applauding and singing. Several Roman candles rose skyward, destination unknown. I smiled, thinking perhaps there was something to this season to be jolly stuff.

Until the candles returned to earth and their tear gas payloads spread over the crowd. I cursed myself for considering even for a moment this planet and its victims had rhyme or reason.

I was never a Boy Scout. Therefore, I really was always prepared. I reached in my pockets to find my mini-mask. Condom? No. Beef jerky? No. Medicinal pot? No. Inflatable doll? Well, later maybe. Ah. Mini-Mask. Got it! I snapped it on and, like Snagglepuss, exited left to avoid the police line only now audible and barely visible with the gas permeating through the air. I sought refuge.

I reached Wisconsin Avenue, about to stagger across it, when the non-bum drove up in his Jag.

"Hop in, buddy! Let’s get out of here!”

I obliged and hopped into his Jag. “Nice car, “said I. “Now push the pedal to the metal and let’s get out of here!”

He did. He must have hit an incredible speed, for it seemed like only minutes before we were 20 miles from the never intended riot.

“Thank God,” I said. “I’d sell my soul to the devil to avoid further insanity.”

A contract instantly appeared before me and the bum said, “Just sign at the X.”

I glanced at the bum, now impeccably attired in black suit, black shirt and black tie.

“You mean….” I started but didn’t finish.

“You got it, bud. I’m the man. Satan Beelzebub. Legion. Or simply call me John. God knows, after ejecting me from heaven, I’ve been a john infinite times.” He laughed heartily.

“Wow!” I responded. “I knew I’d meet you one day, John, but didn’t plan on meeting this soon.”

“Better now, bud, better now. You get more prizes by voluntarily agreeing to part with your soul.”

“So you’ll prevent me from encountering anymore insanity.”

“Done. As soon as you sign the contract. I’ll throw in a Potomac mansion, fully furnished and ten million.”

“Up it to 30 mil, Cindy Crawford, a 300-year lifespan and this Jag.”

“Sorry, bud. No more insanity, 20 mil, 200 years, fully-furnished Potomac mansion and the Jag. Cindy is mine.”

I pondered this proposal for about seven seconds before responding.

“Deal.”

John pulled out the oddest pen I’ve ever seen and rammed it into one of my veins.”

“Ouch!" I screamed.

“Sorry, bud. Has to be signed in blood.”

“Right, John. Right.”

I signed the document and found myself sitting alone in the Jag on the circular driveway at my Potomac mansion. John certainly kept his word.

I now sit in the recreation room in my mansion, a room larger than a football field. I’m watching a Road Runner marathon, sipping a banana daiquiri and realize that in a hundred and forty six years I’ll be joining John in hell. I smile. An eternity in hell? Couldn’t be worse than the 54 years I’ve lived in this earthly hell. Plus I’d be amongst my friends.

Ho, ho, ho! Happy holidays! And to all a good night.
 

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

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

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


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

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Tips to Jumpstart Your Writing

Suzan L. Wiener

How To Avoid Writer’s Block

Are you worried about not having anything to write? Do you fret about getting that dreaded writer’s block when you stare at a blank piece of paper? You don’t have to. Here is what you can do to prevent that from happening.

When you are geared up and have lots of thoughts in your head, write them down on pieces of paper. Then, if you don’t feel like following up on them right away, just keep the idea papers in folders until you want to pursue them. Label each one in such a way that you will easily remember what the idea was. This way, you will always be able to reach into your folders and come out with something you can use - and start writing again.

I also find it a good idea to carry a small journal and pen to write down ideas I think of during the day. Each time I have more to write, I can look at what I wrote previously, and proceed from there. I can write in leisure, without any stress. I also find my words flow much more freely.

I know this works because I have done it many times. It is a wonderful tool for keeping those juices flowing when all else seems to fail. It will keep your confidence high, too, because you are not afraid of that empty page. You can enjoy what you are doing and be productive instead of stagnant.

This simple method has given me many acceptances I might not otherwise have received. Try it, you will be glad you did.


About the Author
Suzan L. Wiener has had numerous articles, poems, stories, and fillers published in a variety of publications such as Canadian Writer's Journal, Verses, Impetus, Poetry Press, MetroSeven (Australia) and The Writer's E-Zine. She is in the process of submitting her love poetry collection for publication.


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Drabble Corner The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz

Here is a Drabble that is intended to illustrate the theme of Balance by using what amounts mainly to internal dialog. The author in this case is, ahem, me.

Exit

Game over. I see the exit sign. I'm propelled on my own choosing, walking away from love whole. My legs carry me so that nothing, nothing, of me gets torn away as I go. Someone offers to make me forget. Come in, see my aquarium. No, not that way! There ought to be a sign.

And I'm getting old. I have no magic eyeglasses, either, to read the signs with, before I am past them. Anyway, I'm afraid glasses would leave me perpetually poised nowhere. I'm slowing down, though, I see. Enough so that the signs are getting clearer now.

Respect can be a dirty word sometimes, as in respect for the feelings of others. It can feel diminishing to be expected to kowtow to the capricious feelings of someone else—someone who obviously, in their hysteria, and therefore in their character in general, at best doesn't see the whole picture. There she is again, tears welling up at your suggestion that she is not lately pleasing to you. Or, there he is again, taking exception to your having worn only sweats at home for the last six months. But it's always you who's got to take the high road, isn't it, if anyone is going to, because they are much too shortsighted to be able to do it.

Has it ever happened the other way around, that you are the one who has been knocked around by these undignified things we call feelings? Have you ever been taken by surprise at the forgetting of a birthday, or been taken at your word when you said you wanted to break it off when you really didn't mean it? What happens when you are the one with the feelings, and that certain someone won't lower himself or herself even to understand them, much less cater to them? What happens when it's you who feels rejected and neglected? Left without them to deal with major life events? Do you cry, do you stomp away, do you turn away?

So what is respect, anyway? Is it a lowering of oneself that's inappropriate and unfair? Is it a deference that's conferred according to the value you place today on the other person's accomplishments, or even on their being itself? Is it the high road in the best sense of the idea?

You decide—create your world of respect in a Drabble. Read the Guidelines, and then send your drabbles to: drabble@wvu.org. See you next time. Happy New Year!


About the Author
Hello, and welcome to Drabbles. I'm Michelle, your Drabbles editor. I live north of San Francisco, with four spoiled cats, near the sea where I love to walk every day. I've tutored English in workshops, classrooms, and individually at San Jose State University, and have worked on the Fiction Panel here at Writers' Village. Comments and questions are always welcome!


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Recognitions

Joan McNulty Pulver

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

This month's column will focus on members from Writers' Village University who won the National Novel Writing Month competition and/or who achieved other writing accomplishments.

Don Hurst, author of Return to UKOO, submitted his manuscript to Writopia’s own ePress-online. It hit the airwaves as an electronic book in December 2004 and will later be published as a trade paperback at Lulu. The story revolves around homicide detective Dale Hern’s life in the alternate world of the United Kingdom of Otheroff, UKOO for short. He is transported there through a mirror and discovers the first 18 years of his life, which he cannot remember. Along with King Malcolm, Dale must go forth and save the queen. You will remember this adventure for a long time.

To find out more about Don and his book, visit Return to UKOO at http://ukoo.org/returntoukoo.

Excited to find out that ePress-online had accepted his manuscript for publication, Don said, "All it took me was fifty plus years of writing, discovering WVU, and receiving feedback from fellow members. Evaluation by the staff of ePress, headed up by Margaret I. Carr, Editor in Chief, editing by 'slash an cut' Donna Sundblad (Birdie) and 'Goof catching' Joan McNulty Pulver, plastering my walls with signs like MAKE IT HAPPEN and BE YOURSELF, writing every single day, bouts of displeasure with spell and language check, endless sessions of self-talk, and hardest of all, turning off the TV once in a while.

"Writing was my hobby but now that I'm retired, it is my vocation and hobby. That and seeing how many grocery clerks I can make smile. I also paint abstracts, which are not completed until viewed.”

Don joined WVU about three years ago. Now a lifetime member, he belongs to The Write Stuff, Flash Fiction, and Colin R Onstad study groups. “It's made all the difference in the world. I'm talented, I know that, but I've never been able to find a way of presenting that talent. The members of WVU have enabled me to learn how to present my quirky cleverness. They've read my chapters even when the subject matter bored them. Why? Because they were there to help me, and all I had to do is help back. Neat, huh?”

Maggie Eaves wrote a personal essay titled, “Tough Love,” which appeared in YOU Magazine, a national magazine in South Africa, and its Afrikaans sister magazine called HUISEGENOOT on September 6, 2004 in English and October 4, 2004 in Afrikaans. “Suddenly, I wondered if it was really ready to go out there… probably like letting a child go or something. Would it ever be ready?”

One of Maggie's favorite authors is Torey A. Hayden because of her "incredible gift of being able to make non-fiction breathtakingly beautiful and her ability to put her soul into her words." Maggie appreciates Dean Koontz' style. "He has a matter of fact-ness about him that makes his work so believable. His imagination is not limited by the stars; he goes beyond that." Add John Grisham to her list of favorite authors, too, as he "places his readers right… THERE!”

Maggie started writing down her hurts and inadequacies when her youngest was born with cerebral palsy. She found that writing had a healing and restoring ability. Reading what she had written, Maggie became braver, realizing that not too many people were prepared to write down their thoughts—that takes guts. “Then I discovered I had the kind of guts it takes. I also found that I could write.

“I am also an artist. I paint colors onto blank canvasses and watch art emerge in the same way words flow from my heart onto blank paper. What happens there can only be described as magical. I love it.”

Maggie became active at WVU about a year ago. "It's given me wonderful encouragement. I have made many friends, learnt so much and have had an unbelievable amount of fun in the time I have been here.”

Nikki Leigh has completed National Novel Writing Month for the third year in a row. “It has proven to be a wonderful way to get a jump on a new novel. My NaNo novel from 2002 is under contract with Wings Epress. My 2003 NaNo novel was submitted to another publisher, who has now requested the full manuscript for consideration.”

Nikki's 2003 and 2004 NaNo novels are part of a historic trilogy set in her fictional town of Misty Cove, MA. “In these novels, the history of the Cape Ann coastline and lighthouses in general are featured parts of the stories. Feel free to visit my website, Nikkileigh.com, for additional information and pictures of the area in the novels.

“I am fascinated with history, the ocean and lighthouses. What better combination of interests could I use to create a series of novels set on the coastline? I am looking forward to visiting the coast of Massachusetts and North Carolina to promote my book. The third book in the trilogy will offer the main character a chance to roam near her home in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.”

In 2003, Donna Sundblad joined the study group Word Slingers. At that time, the posts roiled with talk of BIAM. “I asked what they were talking about and learned about a group effort to commit to writing a Book In A Month. I wrote 17,000 words and was thrilled.

“This year I learned WVU would have a forum set up at the NaNo site and I signed up for the first time. I’d just put together a skeletal outline for a fantasy novel based on a series of writing exercises I’d put together for a book titled, Pumping Your Muse, which will be released by ePress-online.com early this year. The groundwork prepared the way and this time at NaNo I wrote just over 50,140. The working title of this novel is Fortress of Stone.” Visit Donna’s website at The Inkslinger.

A J Dryna writes, “For one thing, I've never heard of NaNoWriMo before joining WVU so I have y'all to thank for that. In addition, all the encouragement and tolerance from my study group members kept me motivated. Thank you all in Middle Earth and SF&F [Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers study groups, F251 [Fiction 251: Independent Writing Challenge] for that. I couldn't have done it without y'all!

“I've never written a novel like this before and I'm only half done. It’s going to be a 100K+ by the end. NaNo really taught me how to open up and let my muse talk without my constant interruptions. I'll be a better writer for it. Right now, though, I'm tired, I wanted to finish tonight so I woke up early and wrote all day. Thanks for sharing this wonderful experience with me. It's something I'll never forget.”

Roy Berman: “I had been posting the beginnings of my first novel at Word Slingers, and I was bogged down with questions and over my head with it. I considered NaNoWriMo for established and published writers, but two folks in the group encouraged me to try it anyway. I thought that if I wrote an unusable story, at least I'd cultivate a daily writing habit and see if my first story draft could get written this way a lot faster.

“Now I sit in awe, because I wrote most of a novel I had no planning on, a viable story that never occurred to me until characters I never met ‘wrote it for me.’ A goal I thought impossible was exceeded four days less than the allotted month. It was a breakthrough of firsts for me—the first time in NaNoWriMo, the first dedicated novel writing experience, the first real free writing, I have ever done, and the first time I was faithful to my own daily writing regimen. I plan to free write my first story as soon as possible. I now can say I'm a writer—and exude some degree of confidence when the time comes to submit my work for publication.”

Leanne Johnston, known to her friends at WVU as Zakgirl: "NaNoWriMo was a virgin experience for me this year. Using the alias of Zanysbear meant no-one at WVU could put me under any undue duress or pressure; yeah right! Not half!

“Nano is somewhat like living through puberty all over again but without mother to help. By the end I suffered a severe case of PMS. (Post muse'll sufferance).”

Elise Langman: “I heard about NaNoWriMo from a posting at WVU last year. It was too late to get started then, but I looked forward to November 2004 all year. I like challenges and this one seemed made to order. It's taken me over two years to write 30,000 words on my ‘real’ novel, so 50,000 words in 30 days seemed almost impossible. Almost. I loved the idea of no pressure except getting the words down. No critiques, no revisions, no internal editor. I padded shamelessly at times but, much to my surprise, my plot developed organically without a whole lot of effort. One of the big benefits of writing at this furious pace for a month is building the habit of writing. My fingers are itching to type more story even as I'm writing this. I'm hoping to take advantage of that momentum and work harder on my other writing now that I've got the hang of this.

“The only person participating in NaNo that I knew before was Birdie, coordinator of The Finish Line group at WVU. Since I'd already gotten used to goals there, NaNo was just another part of that. I can't say that I was very active in the NaNo WVU forum, but it was nice to know it was there. I'm looking forward to seeing other NaNoers around the halls of WVU in the future.”

Sharon Walker: "In All Birds Go to Heaven, my nanowrimo novel, I made discoveries as I did in one of my classes at WVU journeying through the past. When I told my mom the title, she asked: ‘How do you know?’”

‘Well, that will be for the reader to decide,’ I replied.

“I learned that at WVU. On the 30th of November, it was nearing the deadline, and it seemed there was a problem with the Internet connection. ‘I knew this was going to happen,’ I said, as I walked out of the room, and then under my breath I added, ‘I'll have to deal with it.’ When I walked back into the room, my son told me I was a winner, and I had to see for myself, the purple bar with the white letters: Winner! I have a year before the next nanowrimo and though I'm getting older, with WVU in my life, I know I'll get better.”

Congratulations, Don, Maggie, Nikki, Donna, A.J., Roy, Leanne, Elise and Sharon. 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
Joan McNulty Pulver, mother of five and grandmother of five, works as an Administrative Secretary for the State of Florida but considers her writing and editing to be her vocation. She is a columnist for T-Zero: The Writer’s E-Zine, a course developer and facilitator at Writers’ Village University and the Acquisitions Coordinator/Editor for ePress-online. Joan has had two short stories published and is currently working on a non-fiction book and a fantasy novel.


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Fiction Short Story

by Judy Goldman

A Holiday Tale

I grew up on a farm in the heart of central New Jersey. We lived in a quiet, rural area. It wasn't that bad, though. Being on a farm had its advantages, although it wasn't really much to speak of, as farms go. My grandparents' aging seemed to be inversely proportional to the number of animals we had. During this particular December, the chickens and goats were long gone and all that remained were three dogs and an ever-increasing number of stray cats that people routinely dropped off at the farmhouse.

It was 1965. I was nine years old and elated to wake up to newly fallen snow, especially the week before the holiday. Momma and I got ready to trek through the snow to my grandparents' home just across the little path, where we would spend Grandma's birthday baking her sensational poppy seed cookies and apple cobbler with her.

Just as Momma and I dressed to bear the blast, the door swung open and Grandma staggered in; her right hand covered in blood. Chaos ensued as Momma helped her to the kitchen sink. I ran to the medicine cabinet to get various bandages and scissors and caught the colorless, pained look on my Grandma's face. I was terrified.

While Momma bandaged the wound, I learned that Grandma thought she would surprise Grandpa by feeding the dogs so he wouldn't have to go out in the snow. She cut her hand on the jagged edge trying to get the food out of the can.

In no time, the bandage Momma managed to wrap around Grandma's hand soaked through with fresh blood. Momma looked at me and whispered that the cut would need stitches. I donned my boots, other winter gear and headed out across the path to diplomatically tell my Grandpa what happened. I would have to help him get the car ready so we could take Grandma to the hospital.

I dreaded this. Grandpa's driving always made me nervous. Momma used to say it was because he worried a lot. I knew how this news would impact his driving.

The fresh crisp air whipped its refreshing blasts at my face as I made my way up the path. It felt good, but could not override the nausea that hit me at the sight of the trail of bright crimson blood staining the stark white snow.

I prayed hard and found the words to tell Grandpa. Then I watched as he threw his winter jacket over one shoulder and ran down the icy stairs. He tried to steady his wrinkled, shaking hands and get the old blue 63' Buick to start in the bitter cold, growing more anxious with each failed attempt. Finally, he crumbled forward over the steering wheel, arms bent, head down. I worried that he had some type of attack, but then he opened the car door and began running down to the road, slipping and sliding on the ice and snow-covered ground. There were hardly any cars out, but Grandpa and I stood there on the side of the road waving our arms wildly, trying to get someone to stop. No one did.

Just then, an old pick-up came chugging along. Grandpa had given up waving his arms, but the driver stopped right there, in the middle of the road. The biggest man I ever saw got out of the truck He wore an old khaki jacket with patches on both elbows. He had no boots to cover his worn shoes. His long hair needed to be cut. And his skin was the darkest I had ever seen.

While Grandpa and this huge dark-skinned giant stood speaking in the snow, I plowed back to my house and helped Momma get Grandma. We turned her over to the men who helped her into the front of the pick-up. My grandfather got in, too, and closed the door, and the truck drove off.

My grandparents made it to the hospital okay. They stitched Grandma's hand and this story was said and done—until Christmas time seven years later. A few months earlier, my aunts and uncles chipped in for a special 50th wedding anniversary gift for my grandparents. They redid the interior of their home, making it easier for them to get around as they got older. They saved the last surprise for Grandma's birthday; a brand new color television set.

The burly delivery man struggled getting the television through the doorway but managed to set it down gently, with one final grunt. He then turned to Grandpa and asked him if he remembered him. Grandpa apologized but said he did not recognize the man. The stooped man stood to his full height. He removed his cap and told about how seven years earlier, he drove down the very street we lived on. He had just been accused of stealing equipment from the company he worked for. He was not guilty of stealing, but he had been drinking with a few of the other workers. It was one of the other men who stole the equipment, but nobody came forward with the truth. Even though it was just before Christmas, his boss refused to pay him for the two weeks he had coming to him and fired him on the spot.

The man continued his story, telling how he was on his way home to tell his family, when he saw a man on the side of the road with a little girl by his side. He directed the rest of the story to all of us. He told us about how Grandpa had blessed him that day for helping him and Grandma get to the hospital. He concluded, by saying that less than a month after stopping here seven years ago, his entire life turned around. Alcohol was no longer a problem for him. He landed this wonderful job with a major appliance company, where he had been promoted twice already. And, he was scheduled for a third promotion next month to assistant manager. Since this job was with a major company, he was given medical benefits which helped pay for a bone-transplant operation that enabled his youngest son to walk again.

And, he had just recently become a grandpa himself. Twin boys.

He clasped my Grandpa's old hand in his big dark one, wished him and all of us happy holidays, tipped his hat, smiled a toothy grin, and made his way back to his truck, down the path to the road.


About the Author
Judy Goldman is a full-time psychiatric social worker, specializing in in-patient mental health with children. She has a MSW from Monmouth University and is licensed in both New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Judy has written research and grant proposals as well as numerous research papers. She has recently expanded her writing to include fiction and poetry. Some of Judy's work has appeared on-line at Sanitycentral.com. Judy lives along the Jersey shore with her fiancé and their three cats, Snowball, Fred and Ginger. The crew is in the process of moving to the mountains in Pennsylvania where Judy plans to spend more time writing.


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Fiction Short Story

by Stacy Taylor

A Linear Equation of Nebulous Portent

Tillman Schweitzer craved something different.

He did not covet his neighbor's wife, nor did he seek succor from material goods. Tillman Schweitzer wanted solitude and personal freedom.

Every day as he showered, his wife, Lorraine, placed starched white shirts and creased gray slacks at the foot of their bed, and put out a perfectly rolled pair of his thirty-one sets of black trouser socks.  His white boxers, one of fourteen pairs, were folded neatly atop the socks, which were atop the shirt, which was atop the gray slacks.  She even buffed his leather loafers to a high gloss each night and aligned them on the floor by the bed.

Lorraine made blueberry-flavored instant oatmeal every morning for breakfast.  Today was the 2,274th time he had eaten her oatmeal, which he did not mind in the least.

She kept Tillman's secrets, and she kept them well, but there was a cost. Tillman had tired of making daily payments of personal sacrifice and forced participation, but could otherwise find no fault with his life.

"Till, I think you should swing by that new fish market on your way home this evening.  I'm in the mood for fish cakes and wild rice," she said, as Tillman swallowed his seventeenth spoonful of oatmeal.

As always, he attempted to ignore her and to continue his breakfast in silence.

Lorraine would have none of that.  She cleared her throat and spoke again. "Yes, fish cakes and wild rice would be nice, wouldn't it, Till?" she murmured while carefully stirring two and one half spoonfuls of sugar into the last of Tillman's daily three cups of coffee.  "Unless, of course, you'd rather I accept that offer from nice Mr. Standish to come out tonight and survey the basement for an addition?"

Despite the sugar-sweet tone that oozed from his wife's lovely lips, Tillman recognized the threat.  It was the 3,095th threat that she had implied over their 6.23 years of marriage.

He wiped his mouth for the 61,398th time since he'd married, and put his folded newspaper carefully aside.   Before meeting her eyes, he gripped the spoon until his second and third knuckles turned white, and transformed his face into a blank canvas.

"Why, darling, I do believe that you're right.  Fish cakes and wild rice would make a lovely dinner after a long day."

Tillman made the calculation automatically, fish cakes and wild rice for the 921st time.  His stomach lurched, and he could already detect the rotten odor that would soon fill their tidy kitchen.  Tillman was not interested in fish cakes and wild rice.  Tillman wanted something more along the lines of quiche, or a nice watercress salad with subtle vinaigrette dressing accompanied by a broiled chicken breast, lightly seasoned.

Lorraine beamed at him, her smug face, though beautiful, was full of an ugly emotion that he found disquieting.  He had always been satisfied with his life, however, within the past two months, Tillman had thought the following 639 times:  I could live just as easily alone, could I not?

He addressed her in his best doting husband voice, tasting the tiny beads of perspiration that had suddenly gathered above his upper lip.  "My love, I think that I'll spend a few leisurely moments in the basement this morning. Do you require any assistance with the breakfast dishes?"

Lorraine smiled and patted his cheek before replying in that same sugary voice. "No, my darling, but thank you so very much for asking."

Tillman laid his napkin atop his oatmeal bowl, noting with some surprise that he had not finished his breakfast.  That was a definite first.  Amazed, he sorted the data and deduced that he had left eight spoonfuls of the bluish mess in the bottom of his dish.

A strange emotion that he could not categorize or organize filled his heart as he made his way downstairs.

The basement belonged to Tillman.  Every nuance, every corner, every carefully placed shelf, bespoke a nature that could only be assigned to him, while at the same time, no one would ever believe this part of the house was his special place.

Delicate Teak furniture rested in perfect place on top of a rose-colored carpet, and sleek white brackets held a myriad of sentimental belongings. There were framed photographs, assorted Staffordshire figurines, mahogany boxes filled with charms and baubles, and a leather-bound journal.  Tillman smiled and unfastened his tie.

He stepped behind his dainty oriental screen for the 1000th time and removed his clothing, his smile deepening as the odd significance of the number struck home.

What a perfectly round and beautiful number 1000 is.  When next I step behind this screen, I expect I shall be a brand new person.  In fact, maybe this 1000th time can be the last, for any form of ten is fantastic and meaningful and marks significant change.

He hummed as he put on fresh clothing, happiness and well being invigorating his spirit.  His reflection in the ornate oval floor mirror smiled at him with pretty coral lips, and Tillman pirouetted this way and that, admiring his latest purchase from the Internet catalog.  More pleased than he could ever recall feeling, he decided that he should share this milestone with Lorraine. She would, at last, appreciate his flawless taste.

At step number three from the bottom of the staircase, he called to his wife and asked her to join him for a few moments.

After her ill-tempered reply in which she informed her husband that she was rather busy and that he must wait, Tillman counted off the moments until she made an appearance. Exactly 8.7 minutes passed and he used that time to prepare the room for her presence.

She wore a look of frustration when she entered the basement, and as usual refused to look at him full on in his favorite attire by keeping her gaze cast down.  She seemed annoyed by the interruption in her morning routine of talk shows and mint liqueur in the sun-spattered den, but Tillman felt only patience and a sincere desire to share.  He counted six of her breaths, one for each full year of their marriage, and then set about swaying her steadfast mindset with a heartfelt demonstration of his commitment to his preferred lifestyle.

She struggled at first, still refusing to look at him, her heart thundering loud enough for Tillman to find its cadence and work within its beat.  Her eyes on him and filled with approval was his only goal.

The plastic had been a stroke of genius, which Lorraine was certain to appreciate as she had told Tillman 2,439 times that prevention was the very best cure.  He'd spread it over the elegant beige fabric of his sofa, and across the rose-colored carpet after he'd summoned her.

She sat in silence grinning madly, eyelids held open in an attentive stare by a thin strip of surgical tape, absorbing every stunning detail as Tillman danced for her in his brand new Prada cocktail dress and racy silk stockings.  He moved slowly, swishing his hips, undulating his belly, and offering her sensual glances through thick lashes.

All things considered, it had taken a surprisingly short amount of time to convert her revulsion to admiration.  Only a scant forty-three seconds of physical struggle, and exactly five well-placed swipes of his utility blade, and Lorraine's permanent smile and unblinking gaze radiated her approval.

She quieted after just fifty-six moans.  Or perhaps it was forty-six moans. And there were only nine or ten bloodstains on her bathrobe, which Tillman assumed made her happy, it being her favorite robe and all.  It amused him how compliant and adoring she'd become once he had placed that lovely, and quite deep, six-inch gash along the inside of her right upper arm.  He smiled at her silly sweetness.

A wave of tender emotion warmed him over the fact that she'd finally recognized his need for respect and given it to him so selflessly.  He supposed it was her awe over his beautiful new dress, perhaps even a desire to borrow it.  Why else would she whisper, "please" so many times and offer to do  anything for him?  Tillman was flattered, though it was obvious to him that the gown wasn't right for Lorraine's pale coloring.

He was pleased that she went peacefully, and after only 1,000 drops of blood trailed down her arm and fell from the tip of her manicured middle finger.

Well, roughly, anyway.


About the Author
A displaced southern girl living in Alaska, Stacy Taylor is old beyond her years, yet young enough to be foolish. Her work has recently appeared online at Smoke Long Quarterly, Good Gosh Almighty, Tattoo Highway, From the Asylum, Lost in the Dark, and Outsider Ink webzines.  She will be available at your grocery store magazine rack in Arabella Magazine in 2005.  Her darker side can be seen in A Razor Ocean: Bloody Tales, an anthology available at BizzarEbooks.

Co-editor of Chick Flicks Ezine, and co-founder of For Writers, By Writers workshop, she wanders through life, working, eating, sleeping, writing.


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Fiction Short Story

by Shirley McCann

Second Best

"I gotta hand it to you, Jim.  I never thought I'd see so much money."  Hank plucked a bundle of bills from the satchel and fingered through the wad of cash.  "Pulling off that bank robbery together was the smartest thing we ever did.  The next time my boss pages me, I'm gonna tell him what he can do with his low-paying job."

Officer Jim Owens removed the stocking from his head, pulled Hank's beat-up car into the clearing and killed the engine.  He turned to Hank, his gaze pensive.  "You didn't mention my name to anyone, did you?"

Hank rolled his eyes.  "What kind of an idiot do you take me for?"  Tossing his stocking mask out the window, he smiled and removed the gun from his coat pocket.  "No one will ever link the two of us together," he assured him.  "And to think, we didn't have to fire a single shot."

Jim shoved his handheld radio into his pocket along with his mask and slapped Hank on the back.  "Well, that's a good thing," he said.  "Cause I don't think you know how to shoot a gun."

"Of course I know how to shoot a gun."   Hank snickered.  "I robbed a liquor store, didn't I?  Geez, you should remember that.  Thanks to you, I spent two years in jail."

Jim shook his head and laughed.  "How can I forget?  You've got to be the dumbest criminal I've ever come across.  Writing the stick-up note on your own deposit slip was stupid.  It didn't take me long to track you down.  But on the other hand, if you'd had a gun, you could have fought back."

Hank lowered his head.  "Yeah, I guess that was pretty dumb.  But with you as my partner, there's no telling what we can pull off."

Jim twisted in his seat and faced Hank.  Taking the gun, he hooked his finger through the trigger guard and twirled the deadly weapon.  "Look, if you want to continue as my partner, you're gonna have to prove you can shoot."  He returned the gun to Hank and pointed.  "Aim right into those bushes over there and pull the trigger a couple of times."

Hesitating briefly, Hank accepted the gun and curled his finger around the trigger. 

"Just aim right into those bushes," Jim said again.  "Let's see if you've got the guts it takes to shoot one of these babies."

Hank fired two shots into the bushes. His eyes narrowed when he heard the ping of metal.  "Sounds like I hit something." "You did, Hank.  Remember when I said we couldn't leave behind any witnesses."

"Sure."  Hank shrugged.  "But there were no witnesses.  We wore masks."

"There are two witnesses, Hank.  You and me."  Jim displayed another gun and pointed it at Hank.

Hank's mouth dropped.  "But we're partners!" he shouted.  "I'd never squeal."

"Not if you're dead."  Jim reached for the bag of money and tossed it outside the car.  Holding the gun steady, he exited the vehicle and took several steps back.

Hank's eyes widened.  "It won't work, Jim.  The cops know I had a partner waiting for me in a getaway car."

Jim grinned.  "That's right, Hank.  That was part of my brilliant plan.  You see you'll be shot because I returned the shots you fired at me."

Hank's gaze veered to the bushes where he had fired the shots.

"Right again, Hank.  That's my patrol car parked behind those bushes.  Now with two convenient bullet holes made when you tried to kill me. Naturally I returned fire, fatally injuring you in the process.

"And as for your partner, I'll tell the officers on the scene that your accomplice got away.  With the money, of course; there won't be any reason for them to doubt me.  After all, it was your gun that just put two bullet holes into my police car."

Jim pulled the trigger and shed the clothes he wore over his uniform.  Realizing his bullet-riddled car would be examined as evidence, he hid the money, along with the clothing, in a hollow tree stump he had scouted out earlier.  He climbed through the bushes and fired up the engine of his patrol car.  While he phoned for backup, he eased his vehicle into the clearing.

Hiding in the woods, in the pretense of searching for Hank's accomplice, Jim waited while he considered his plan with amusement.

It had been pure luck running into Hank Bledsoe that day at the bank.  He had been the arresting officer two years ago when Hank had been sent to prison for robbery.  All he had to do was threaten to make Hank's life miserable if he didn't cooperate with his new plan. 

Minutes later, sirens screamed his fellow officers' arrival.  Returning to the crime scene, Jim recognized Officers Dunn and Smith. 

"It was that dumb Hank Bledsoe that I sent to prison two years ago," Jim huffed, pretending to be out of breath.  "I chased his partner through the woods, but I lost him."

Jim's face paled when the two officers took aim.

"Drop the gun!" Officer Dunn shouted.  "On the ground!  Feet spread.  Hands on the back of your head!"

His heart pounding, Jim did as instructed.  "You're making a mistake," he screamed.  "If it weren't for me, both thieves would have escaped."

Cold handcuffs clamped his wrists, while rough hands patted him down.  "Where's the money, Jim?"

"You're making a stupid mistake."

"You made the mistake, Jim," Officer Dunn replied.  "We heard everything.  Somehow you tripped the mic switch on your radio during your escape.  I'm guessing it's hidden around here with the money."

Before Jim could think of a response, a faint beeping sound caught their attention.

Officer Dunn followed the sound to the hollow stump.  Kicking it over, he extracted the bag of money and clothes.  In the zippered side pocket of the bag, he removed Hank's pager.

His grin widened.  "Hank may not have been the brightest criminal in the world, Jim. But he couldn't be the dumbest as long as you were around."


About the Author
Shirley McCann, an active member of The Mystery Writers of America since 1995, also maintains memberships in  The Short Mystery Fiction Society, and The Missouri Writers' Guild.  In 1997, she co-founded Sleuths' Ink, a Springfield, Missouri-based mystery writers group.  She lives in Springfield, Missouri with her husband and two children.


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

by Lita Harris

The Woman’s Cry

I hear it again. Why won’t it stop? Her cries seep through my bedroom walls. Each night is worse than the last. No one else hears the sad cry of the woman I cannot see. The town legends warned of her presence but I ignored them all and bought it anyway. This house—now belongs to me. As I pull the patchwork quilt over my head, her moans continue to invade my mind. With excruciating agony, the moans heighten to a deafening scream. Louder—louder—her screams race through my being. I pull the quilt tighter to muffle the sound.

I can sense her pain but it is hers alone to bear. The crying will not stop. I roll over and gaze at my spouse who sleeps soundly. Many times I have told him of my torment, but he has never heard her cries. Why am I the chosen one? Am I insane? I am so cold. Chills surge through my body, each wave colder than the last. My body shivers. Smack! It is only a tree branch, flung against the window by the unsettled wind. I shiver uncontrollably, begging for the screaming to cease. It is only then that I will find peace.

She carries on with persistence this night. I cannot stand it. “Stop it! Stop screaming!” I yell out to her. Yet, no one hears me. This cannot continue another moment. I must stop her and put an end to this madness. I throw back the covers and glance over at my spouse who is still oblivious to the horror of the intruder lurking in our home. I trip in the darkness as I fumble for a blanket to wrap around my convulsing, chilled body. I can barely move.

Swaddled in wool, I find my way to the bedroom door. I quietly turn the bedroom doorknob and slither through the narrow opening. If I am to fight this alone, I must take action now. She has invaded my home for too long. I walk through the darkness of the vacant corridor.. The narrow cold walls seem to close upon me and brush against my shoulders as I approach the attic door. Can it be? Has the crying stopped? I hesitate for a moment to listen for her.

The abrupt silence makes me uneasy. I reach out and turned the doorknob to gain entrance to the attic then hesitate as I look up the staircase. A faint ray of light from a moonbeam forces its way through a dirty window and paves the way for me as I ascend the dilapidated wooden stairs. I nearly fall as a mouse runs over my bare feet. The air is icy. It is so cold that I can barely breathe. I clutch the blanket tighter against my body and proceed to the top of the staircase.

Shadows lurking about the room unnerve me. This room is unfamiliar to me. Dusty books fill one corner of the room. Broken furniture makes for an uncomfortable invitation. Old toys lay about, cast off by their former owner. Dolls with vacant eyes seem to watch my every movement. The floorboards creak beneath my weight with each step I take. Suddenly I sense something behind me. I whirl around. There is nothing there to see. As I turn to leave the attic, I hear her but she is not crying. Subtle laughter begins to fill the room. I spin around to find her. Louder the laughter peals. “Stop it now!” Tears run from my eyes and freeze onto my cheeks. “Leave my house!”

The laughter is deafening. I cannot see her yet I know she is here somewhere in the deep shadows of the cluttered room. I pace about the attic to confront her. “Stop it now!”

Silence. The laughter stops as abruptly as it began. I turn to leave. I stop at the top of the stairs and take one last look around. The room is quiet. As I reach out to the banister—the crying resumes—something rushes up behind me.

I awaken sitting in a chair in the attic to the sound of strange voices. I stand up as the voices come closer to the door. Light from the hallway fills the attic stairway. I do not recognize the voices. Slowly, I walk over to the top of the staircase. Two men in paramedic uniforms are standing at the foot of the stairs. They are bent over and I cannot see what is going on. I hear the familiar voice of a man. “That’s her,” he sobs.

“Move out of the way please,” I beg the paramedics. I try to descend the staircase but am unable to. I can see a policeman standing in the hallway and my spouse is sitting on the floor crying. I yell out but no one answers me. I attempt to leave the attic but cannot.

I watch the uniformed men stand, unaware of my presence. “Please help me,” I cry out to them. Why are they ignoring me? I watch them place a limp body on a stretcher and I begin to cry. “No, please do not leave me here. Help me. Help me.”

I watch as the policeman closes the attic door. “No! No!” I begin to cry. I race over to the window and watch them place the stretcher inside an ambulance. The sirens are silent as they drive away. I sit down in the chair as the sun breaches the horizon and her cries resume.


About the Author
Lita Harris spends her time in between New Jersey and the Endless Mountains of Pennsylvania with her husband, two children and three dogs. She is the author of Lady Samantha, Samantha’s Awakening and is currently working on her third novel, Samantha’s Destiny. She enjoys making pottery and stained glass sun catchers in her spare time. Visit her at www.litaharris.com


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

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Poetics

Compiled by Glennis Hobbs

Why Poems Don’t Work And What Happens To Them?

This is the third 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.

What do you do with poems that don't work?

Chris:
They are still sitting in my poetry folder. Actually I love them all, they are my babies. I am letting them mature, distancing myself before going back to them.

Gwen:
If it’s a poem I really want to write right, I keep tinkering with it on and off. If it’s a poem I don’t really care about, I usually do nothing with it.

Janice:
If a poem does not work for me, I usually put it in a “save for rework” file, hoping to find something for a contest deadline, or just to rework one at random.

Lori:
I have a large “slush pile”. Sometimes I’ll take a line from a poem and use it in something else. Unfortunately, only a small percentage of poems in my “slush pile” will ever become poems that I will send out. The rest languish like old race horses sent to pasture—growing fat and lazy, munching on memory chips.

Mo:
I used to delete those, but now I print out everything since I know how viruses can destroy files. I wish I had some of my older poems to rewrite.

Rolly:
Let it sit in my journal so that I can come back to it when the appropriate time comes.

Sarah:
I have a file called “failed poems” because misery loves company. I do look through the file sometimes to try and see with hindsight what has gone wrong or if there’s something worth saving.

Glennis
Some poems go into a file marked “draft” on my computer. Others get filed away in a scribbler or binder. Sometimes I will take a line or phrase from a poem and work it into a new poem. I often transfer phrases and ideas into a current scribbler.

When I do a rewrite of a poem, I retitle it Poem 2 and keep all drafts of a poem. When I reach what I feel is a current “final copy,” then I delete the original drafts.

Occasionally I read a poem and cringe to think that I wrote it. Other times I vent in poetry. These hit the shredder.

Do you know why they don't work?

Chris:
Maybe the language is too trite or over-used or they are too sentimental. Some are bitter and they don't work because they were written more for catharsis than for art.

Gwen:
If I knew why my poems didn’t work, I’d fix ‘em! LOL That’s why posting them in various workshops is such a great learning experience—I find out how the poems affect other poets; if what I’m trying to get across, gets across or not; if I’ve included too much emotion, or not enough; etc.

Janice:
I’m not sure I always know why a poem does not work. Sometimes I know the reason and sometimes I do not have a clue. If I can’t fix the poem easily on a second reading, I stash the piece in the file and leave finding the reason it doesn’t work until later.

Lori:
Some of these are early works that seemed interesting at the time, but never really gelled and are not that interesting. A few will take another form or parts will find another home. It seems that I can tell a lot quicker these days whether something is going to work than I used to be able to—but I still keep unfinished work in case I find a way into it again.

Mo:
The words needed trimming; the thoughts weren't unique or original. The language needed some shading. I keep learning. I will search for a poem to post soon.

Rolly:
I do have a feeling but I’m not sure.

Sarah
One part is way better than the rest. The idea is doesn’t come through well enough. It’s boring. A good question to ask oneself after writing a poem, I think, is ‘so what?’

Glennis:
If I feel a poem doesn’t work, I try to put it away for a while and come back to it. Sometimes the reason for the poem not working hits like a ton of bricks. Other times I still scratch my head.

I am fortunate enough to have a fellow writer who lives with me and I often run poems by him. His questions and comments make me think about solutions.

Sometimes if a poem doesn’t say what I’m trying to make it say, I will write out in a sentence or two what I’m trying to say so that I can try to crystallize the idea. Then I go back and look at the poem and see if I can make it work.

Presenting The P123 Poets

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah Sloat was born in the 60's 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

Valerie Noir

While at Northampton Community College, Valerie Noir had the privilege of honing her poetic skills under the mentorship of Dr. Len Roberts. She continued to pursue literary studies while at Moravian College where, under the tutelage of Dr. Carole Brown, she completed an undergraduate thesis in Chaucerian Studies. Presently, Valerie is marketing two novels as well as miscellaneous short stories. She is also working on a screenplay from her Pennsylvania office while simultaneously running her own web-design business.

The Blue '78 Chevy Nova

In Joe's junkyard,
along the icy curves
of 611, a dried corsage,
now a light shade of gray,
crumbles on the black seat
of the crushed blue '78 Nova
as though placed there purposely
among the blood stained glass
which glitters like a shattered
diamond of a broken engagement.

A green tinted bottle of no name
champagne lies half empty
on the decaying car floor,
reflects light from the setting sun
as it shines through the torn off door.
Grass and weeds grow over the car,
bury it in a mound of flowering
red and white wildflowers.

A delicate white shoe,
speckled with crimson spots,
is home to a brown field mouse
who made her nest with white
taffeta shreds and shards
of a matching cummerbund.

In the curve of the bent steering wheel
a yellow and black spider knits
his web of sticky threads to catch
flies and gnats before they can taste
the death that will later linger
like the smell of alcohol
clinging to the shell
of the blue '78 Chevy.

Copyright ©2005 by Valerie Noir




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

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

What We Pay For

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What We Publish

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

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

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

What We Won't Publish

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Length Recommendations

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

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

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

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

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

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

Getting to Know You

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

How and Where to Submit

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

Fiction should be sent to fiction@thewritersezine.com.

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

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

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

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

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

Good luck!


T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
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© Copyright 1998 - 2007, Writopia Inc. All rights reserved