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 The Writer's E-Zine

 

 Produced and published by the members of Writers' Village University since 1998    ISSN 1521-2639       
12 March 2010
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Craft of Writing

Donna Sundblad

Organizing a Book Proposal

Correspondence provides an important avenue in the submission process. Your query or book proposal works as a tool to open the door of opportunity while making that ever-important first impression. The ratio of rejections versus acceptance letters makes it all the more necessary to put forth correspondence of professional quality. Before I started the submission process, I took a class on how to write a query letter. In that particular class I heard mention of “book proposals,” but at the time I focused on learning what the heck a query should be.

Logically I could understand that “query” would be asking a publisher if he or she would possibly be interested in my wonderfully creative idea. You too may be asking yourself how query letters differ from book proposals. The terms sounded redundant in my mind, but when I finished my novel, I set out for clarification by attending a seminar on “How to Get Published.” In this article I pass along valuable information that not only tells you how the two differ, but provides definition of the elements included in a proposal and how to organize it.

Let me put it this way. A query letter can be compared to seeing someone across the room and being told, “There’s so-and-so." You don’t really know them, but you know what they look like and whether or not you may be interested in meeting them. A query letter does the same. It’s a brief pointer to you and your idea. It says, “Here’s so and so and their idea. Are you interested in meeting them?”

The book proposal, on the other hand, gives you much more information. It’s like going up and introducing yourself with a handshake and holding a brief conversation. Remember that a handshake involves two people. The proposal is most often “requested” based on a previous communication, whether verbal or written. After you shake someone’s hand, you get to know much more about the person, but not every detail. A book proposal is like this short conversation. It offers concise information about you and your book. Note the important words in this paragraph, “brief,” “short,” and “concise.” This is key to a successful proposal.

Bite-Size and Easy to Digest
Acquisitions editors and publishers receive volumes of paper. You don’t want your precious idea to get lost in that pile of slush, but how do you draw their attention without risky gimmicks that backfire? Your goal is to deliver a proposal in bite-size pieces, easy to digest. The editor’s time is precious. If he can glean information quickly from what you’ve written, he’ll keep reading. However, if an editor opens a proposal and the first thing he sees is a two-page cover letter expounding the wonders of your book; it won’t get read. Don’t think shrinking the font to 10 or 11 pt. so it fits on one page will help. Remember, I said easy to read.

Earlier I compared the book proposal to a handshake. Handshakes make different impressions and so do proposals. If you shake a limp hand or a hand that squeezes too hard, it tells you something about the person before they open their mouth. It’s best if the initial handshake remains less noticeable and the conversation more memorable. You want your proposal to invite the editor or publisher to remember what he reads, and get to know enough about your book that he wants to see the entire manuscript. Gimmicks like colored paper or hard-to-read fonts will most likely land your hard work in the slush pile of the “unread.”

Putting It Together
First, be sure to use white paper and a twelve-point font that’s easy to read, like Times New Roman or a courier style. You’ll need a paper folder equipped with a pocket on each side when open. I chose one that accommodates a business card. In fact, I color coded my folder with my business card and website.

When an editor opens a proposal, they expect an order to the information presented. They’ll know where to look for what they want to see. In general, this article provides a quick, easy reference for the placement of each required item. Some editors may add or subtract from this list. It’s important to read guidelines or talk to the editor; be sure you know what they want.

Right Folder Pocket

  • Cover letter – Try to keep this to three paragraphs. Do your homework. Know the editor’s name. In fact, if you haven’t been in touch with the editor, I suggest you make a phone call to confirm the editor’s name along with the correct spelling. Editors move around a good bit. If you’re not sure, make the call.


    • Include a brief description of the book in your introductory paragraph, including manuscript details (page count and how quickly the book can be completed). In the next paragraph, give the editor a bit about you as the author. Close with a brief concluding paragraph. Keep it in short, bite-size pieces. The cover letter is not the main course. Its purpose is to make a quick introduction to you and your work. If you’re not sure how to put together a cover letter, I highly recommend How to Write Attention-Grabbing Query and Cover Letters, by John Wood.

  • Table of Contents – This chapter-by-chapter overview serves as a short synopsis. Condense each chapter to a one-sentence summary. If you must, you can make it a two-sentence summary for longer chapters. This compact version of your manuscript works like a storyboard. It allows the editorial staff to experience the beginning, middle and end of your story while quickly absorbing features of your book. It proves your ability to put a book together.


    • Be sure to include the end of your story. I’ve heard anecdotes from editors about authors withholding the end of their story in hopes that the editor will contact them begging to know what happened. The editor’s time is valuable. You don’t want to do anything to jeopardize your opportunity. Gimmicks such as this may cost you the break you’re waiting for.

  • Sample Chapters – usually three to four chapters. Again, it’s important to check the guidelines. I recently submitted a book proposal for the same novel to two different publishers. One asked for the first three chapters, while the second asked for the first sixty pages. Send what they want. Don’t staple these chapters; use a paper fastener of some sort to secure them. If an editor requests the entire manuscript, rubber band it or put in a box to prevent pages from becoming separated.


    • Be sure to check your chapters for spelling errors, grammar and typos. As an editor, I recently read the first one hundred pages of a manuscript because the story interested me, but it contained so many errors I couldn’t recommend it. Don’t allow a sloppy submission to block your road to publication.

Left Folder Pocket

  • Bio – Keep this to one page or less, 12 pt., on white paper, Times New Roman, and written in third person. If you’ve published a lengthy list of articles or short stories, don’t include them individually. Instead, mention them as a group and offer more details upon request.

    If you don’t have clips to offer, make your bio interesting. If you work in a dry cleaning shop, use it to your advantage. Explain how what you do gives you a unique perspective and contact with a variety of personalities.


  • Marketing and Publicity – In today’s marketplace, publishers expect authors to actively promote their work. This section of your book proposal allows for creative thinking.

    A. Special Features of the Book – What makes your book unique? Do you use visual icons to highlight specific information within the chapter? Does your book include a glossary? Is it a “Pop-Up’ children’s book? Tell the editor what makes your book marketable.

    B. Endorsements – Short blurbs by someone with credentials. Offer a quote regarding what they said about your book along with their name and relevant qualifications.

    C. Market – Whom do you think this book will appeal to? Is it for young adults or someone else? This section provides the opportunity to mention intentions for a series if realistic.

    D. What you will do for the book realistically? What are your plans? For instance, I put together a two-hour workshop to help promote my writing book, “Pumping Your Muse.” I’ve designed handouts and plan to make copies of my book available. This workshop for writers’ groups opens doors for me to promote my book. This is the place to share similar ideas with the publisher.


    • This is also a good place to list the various writers’ groups with which you network, newsletters that offer an opportunity to mention your book and possible chat networks where you can self-promote your book. Contact your local library and book clubs for other sources of marketing your book.

    In this day and age, another common avenue for promoting your book is a personal website. If you don’t know what you’re doing, find someone who does. You’ll want a website you can update on a regular basis.
Make a Plan
Putting together a book proposal is almost as much work as writing the book you’re trying to promote. I suggest you take it a piece at a time. Write your cover letter and put it aside when you think it’s finished. The most time-consuming element is the Table of Contents. Set a goal for a few chapters a week, or whatever your schedule permits. Get your chapter summary down to one or two long sentences and put it aside. When you’ve completed all the necessary elements, go back and fine-tune them. Make them smooth and professional, and lastly, go ahead, submit it!


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 at  www.theinkslinger.net.


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Craft of Writing

Phyllis Edgerly Ring

Partying Words

Whoever said critique groups can't be fun, as well as instructive?

The women in my writers group aren't particularly brave. We're all well-acquainted with rejection as well as publication, and often still secretly dread putting our work out there for others to see—and possibly criticize.

So, in much the same way that we've learned how to make our writing process as fun as we can, building in rewards for our hard work, we've also designed our feedback group to be "writer-friendly." That means the ground rules include respectfulness and consideration (and offering feedback only when requested). It means maintaining a spirit of mutual support and encouragement. And, it means making a party of the occasion in any way we can. After all, no one ever said you can't do something useful AND make it as fun as possible.

Food's an important element, of course. Most times, one of us has something pretty dazzling to share, although we each often bring an inviting snack along, and most of us have learned to eat lightly at dinner on those evenings when the group meets. The non-stop holiday season from October to December provides a great excuse to make a potluck meal of every meeting and munch while reviewing the latest novel chapter, article, or poem that group members want to test-run. (In the summer, we sometimes share the fun around one member's pool, maybe even getting a little aquatic exercise to burn off some of those extra calories.)

We've also learned that fun activities help us lighten up and feel joyful, while still keeping our focus on the world of words that we love so well. Some of these are the kinds of everyday games you'd expect word-lovers to prize and play like happy children: Scrabble, Boggle, Pictionary.

We've also found ways to incorporate the lives and work of some of our favorite authors, or perhaps the themes from writing that we're working on, into our refreshments. We've had favorite dessert recipes from mystery writers, a big Irish meal in honor of Maeve Binchy's birthday, or Southern cuisine when one writer's plantation-based novel found its way to publication.

For another bit of fun, the hostess sometimes takes a short quote from a writer or famous piece of writing, or very short poem (nothing over 15 words or so) and writes each word on a separate small piece of paper. Then each of us tries to assemble them correctly like a puzzle. Sometimes, there's a prize for the winner. I've used this same technique with other small snippets of famous quotes to encourage children to learn them, or in parties with adults and children where they can solve them together in mixed groups. In another writing-word game, our group has tried to guess what famous writer said or wrote the quotes we take turns reading aloud.

Sometimes, for pure silliness, especially when one or more of us has been facing some challenges, we bring out the magnetic poetry strips, each draw some at random, and concoct poems that usually leave us laughing until our faces hurt, a great medicine on some difficult days.

Generally, we break for one or two of these activities at the same time that we have our refreshments, after each of us has had a chance to share her work and receive the feedback she requests.

We're committed to offering each other constructive feedback that aims to help make each one's work the best it can be, and we think it has. We're proud to say that manuscripts we've reviewed have become published novels, nonfiction books, and a whole raft of magazine articles and essays. So we definitely use our critique time well.

But deep down, we know that it's really the "fun factor" in these get-togethers that keeps us coming back for more. Who's to say it hasn't made our writing better, too?


About the Author
Phyllis Edgerly Ring's articles have appeared in Bay Area Parent, Delicious Living, Hope, Ms., Yankee, and Writer's Weekly. A parenting columnist for several publications, she previously coordinated programs for children and adults at a Bahá'í conference center and later taught English to kindergartners in China. For more information about her current projects, visit www.phyllisring.com.


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Craft of Writing

Arthur R. Barnes

The Rocky Balboa Factor

Rocky is one of the best boxing movies of all times. I must admit I enjoyed every single one of the movies. I can hear the fans chanting, “Rocky, Rocky, Rocky!” Can’t you? Rocky is always the underdog in the fight of his life.
 
The writer’s life is best contrasted with the fictional character Rocky Balboa.
 
Every writer who is or desires to be successful at the craft must possess the Rocky Balboa factor.
 
As your eyes are glued upon every word, you will see in vivid detail what I mean for yourself. So, relax and enjoy.
 
When first starting out as a writer, I possessed natural skills and writing ability. I believed in my heart I was a good writer.
 
Rocky Balboa believes he is a good boxer. That is until Mickey shows up at his house telling him differently. Mickey becomes his reality check. Rejection letters became my Mickey. Have you met your Mickey yet?
 
Has he come across your doorstep confronting you with the truth yet? Mickey shows Rocky a side of himself that changes Rocky for the better. Rocky complains about not owning a locker at the gym. Mickey’s sharp words pierce Rocky's soul. Not until his visit does Rocky realize he must become a better fighter to remain in the boxing profession.
 
Conditioning of a Writer
All writers find themselves in the Rocky Balboa predicament at a point in their lives. The predicament grabs you by the collar, slams you against the wall, and growls, "What are you going to do about it?"
 
Rocky Balboa could remain an unknown boxer settling for small bouts, small pay, and small vision. The Rocky Balboa factor says to the writer, "I am not settling." A writer must train hard at the craft, exercising the writing muscle.
 
I look at writing exercises as push-ups. Here is a quick exercise that I enjoy doing. It will create 52 character names. Take a sheet of paper, numbering it 1-52. Now think of 26 male names from A-Z, followed by 26 women's names the same way.
 
You now have 52 possible names for characters.
 
I told you the exercise would be fast. In fact, you just accomplished a lot in a very short time.
 
Let us move on to doing some sit-ups. Go to the top of your list and write a brief descriptive sentence about each person. See how cool writing can be.
 
I like doing five-minute regimens of free writing on various topics. I keep the television set on, listening for a particular word that peaks my interest, then I run with it.
 
I see Rocky pounding upon frozen slabs of meat drawing media attention. All of a sudden, Apollo’s trainer sees how serious Rocky is about the fight. He attempts to get Apollo’s attention to see how hard Rocky is training for their fight.
 
Writers should write as well as submit their writing to various magazines, e-zines, newspapers, etc. You cannot expect anyone to take you seriously until you begin to write seriously and submit seriously.
 
Rocky trained hard under Mickey’s direction. Mickey made Rocky push himself to train harder and work longer upon perfecting his craft. This training help prepare him for his fight against Apollo Creed. Throughout the movie Rocky hinted that he wanted to go the distance. 
 
The Main Event
Writers, rejection letters can’t stop you. Boos should never silence you. You have to fight and have fight in your heart. There are shots you have to take as a writer that will hurt your pride, make you hesitant to submit your work, buckle, and make you want to throw in the towel. Writing is about heart, blood, sweat, tears, and fight. You are a writer as well as a fighter.
 
The Rocky Balboa factor gives a writer the heart of a champion. A champion trains hard and is prepared to go the distance. We are champions who trade blows with the best of them.
 
Writers, write when your fan base is zero. Write when problems arise in your life. Write when you feel like sleeping. Write when you don’t feel like it. Keep on writing when editors tell you they cannot use your piece. Keep on writing, keep fighting and swinging. Sure enough, you will get a good shot in. Before you know it, fans will roar your name.
 
Rocky Balboa was nobody before his bout with Apollo. Afterwards he became a somebody. He fought so well that Apollo whispered to Rocky, “Ain’t gonna be no rematch.” Rocky lost the fight but won our hearts.

Rocky also won the biggest war—against himself—to be the best boxer he could be.
 
By now, you hear that champion music playing in surround sound. Start training hard now. Punch frozen meat, go the distance, fight triumphantly, and write on.
 
Soon you shall receive recognition and the world will be chanting your name. You too will win the hearts of fans the way champions of the pen have done before you. Champions of the pen like Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen, J.K. Rowlings, Stephen King, John Sandford, Dean Koontz, and Maya Angelou.
 
You are destined to become a heavyweight champion of the pen because you exercise the Rocky Balboa factor. Remember, champion, eye of the tiger, this is your round. Now go out there, fight to win, and take it to them, champ.
 

About the Author
Arthur R. Barnes is Director of Advertising and Circulation for Judaism Journal and Subscriptions Manager of Congress Monthly Magazine.  He is the proud father of two teenagers, Arthur and Amanda. Currently Mr. Barnes lives in Brooklyn, New York with his son, Arthur.  In his spare time he is a freelance writer, copywriter, and a publicist.


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Craft of Writing

George J. Bryjak

Writing The Op-Ed Article

Writing OP-ED (OPposite the EDitorial page) articles is a great way to have your views aired while making money at the same time. Not only is getting one's perspective on an issue into the public discourse satisfying, but these relatively short pieces (650 to 800 words) can be written without taking big chunks of time from other projects.

Writer's block is of virtually no concern to op-ed contributors, and penning an opinion article is a sure fire way to get unblocked if you are having troubles in other areas of your creative life. Scanning local newspapers and watching the evening news should yield a plethora of issues and problems to address. You can write about enduring topics such as abortion, gun-control, and capital punishment as well as current issues. Offer a new twist on an old subject, or call attention to an emerging problem. If all else fails make a list of things that infuriate you and go from there. In my hometown, a local author wrote a humorous yet biting op-ed piece about cell phone use in public places.

The old maxim of 'whatever you write, don't be boring' applies in spades to opinion pieces. These articles should be gloves off, hard-hitting, and controversial. Half of your readers should shower you with kudos, the other half question your sanity.

There's a lot of competition for limited space on op-ed pages, so knowing how to craft and submit an article will increase your chances of seeing it in print. The first paragraph of your piece is the most important. If you don't grab the attention of your reader (starting with the op-ed editor) immediately there's little chance that he or she will continue to the second paragraph.

I started a piece on personal responsibility entitled, "It's Never Our Fault These Days" with the following: "Who is responsible for the recent abuse of prisoners in Iraq? The individuals who inflicted the punishment? Their superiors? The secretary of defense? The president? All of the above? None of the above?" The ideal first paragraph hooks the reader while setting the stage for what's to come.

The middle section is where a position is taken by way of answering the question(s) posed, or supporting a declaration ("It's Time to Reinstate the Draft," for example) made in the opening paragraph. Imagine that "Colossal-Mart" is exploring the possibility of opening one of its mega-stores in your community. Your article should strongly endorse or oppose any proposed construction. NEVER take both sides of an issue. For one, you don't have the space, and two, that's not what op-ed editors want.

The opinion piece argument takes the form of a factual and/or philosophical presentation (in most instances, both). For example, you might begin by saying that whenever and wherever a Colossal-Mart opens, small businesses unable to compete with discount super stores begin to fail. How do you know this is true? Because of the research you have done via the Internet (at least to start) that supports this position. The introduction of facts and figures along with attribution ("According to U.S. Department of Commerce...") lends credibility to your position. Quotes (don't make them too long) from authorities, especially if they are well known, also support your argument.

More speculative, philosophical comments give perspective to factual statements. For example, you might argue that as small businesses fail, the fabric and cohesion of the community is affected, and that the last thing your town needs is more minimum wage, meager-benefits jobs. Keep in mind that facts do not speak for themselves. Rather, they must be interpreted within a larger context. The crux of the op-ed piece is the interpretation of facts within the context the writer provides.

In an information-overload society, few people will long remember the specifics of your article. Your goal is to provide readers with a conclusion that encapsulates the entire essay. The closing paragraph should be the inevitable finale to your argument, with the last sentence a can't forget statement that "sticks in the reader's ear." In an op-ed piece entitled, "Outsourcing the American Dream," I presented the downside of sending information technology jobs overseas. The last paragraph read: "The current group of late teens and twenty-somethings is likely to be the first generation of Americans that will not equal or surpass their parents' financial status. At the current rate of middle-class job erosion, their children will be the second."

Here is a powerful ending from an op-ed piece ("Saving the Iraqi Children") by New York Times columnist Nicholas Kristof. "Those hundreds of thousands of Iraqi children, whose lives we placed at risk by invading their country, are the reasons we should remain in Iraq until we can hand over security to its local force. Saving hundreds of thousands of lives is a worthy cause to risk American lives for, even to die for."

The problem most op-ed writers have is fitting their presentation within the specified word limit. Through trial and error I've discovered that the best way to handle this limitation is to write the first draft relatively unencumbered by word count, focusing instead on the overall structure and content of the piece. If the initial draft is too long (that's the norm), examine which components of your argument can be eliminated or compressed. I typically write four to six drafts before I'm confident enough to submit a piece. This may seem like a great deal of work, but these essays top out at a mere 800 words.

If possible, have two or three individuals read your piece with an eye toward style and content. Things that appear perfectly straightforward to you may be confusing and awkward to someone else. If a busy editor (and they're all busy) finds these mistakes, not only will your piece be rejected, but he or she will be more likely to hit the delete key upon receiving your next submission. The last thing you want is a reputation as a sloppy thinker and/or writer.

When your article is lean and mean and ready to go, use the following as a guide and checklist before submitting.

  • Submit articles to a specific op-ed editor whenever possible. Most newspapers (and certainly all of the major dailies) have a web page. If the editor's name and Email address is not listed, call the main information number and ask.

  • Articles can be sent to any number of newspapers unless the readership of those publications overlap. For example, you could not submit a piece simultaneously to the San Diego Union-Tribune and the Los Angeles Times as the Times has a San Diego County edition. However, you could send a piece to both the Union-Tribune and the Los Angeles Daily News because the latter does not have a San Diego edition.

  • In the subject line of the Email, type "Article submission" or "Op-ed submission." This is important for those newspapers using the same Email address (not an individual) for both article submissions and letters-to-the-editor.

  • Some newspapers DEMAND that articles be pasted into the body of the Email while others want the piece submitted as an attachment. Still others (a distinct minority) will only accept fax submissions. Make certain you submit via the correct procedure.

  • If you have any experience, expertise, or credentials that lend credibility to your article, do not hesitate to make this known to editors. For example, if you are the president of the "No Colossal-Mart in Johnstown Committee," by all means include this information with your submission. Lacking credentials that lend themselves to national or international issues, you will have more success writing about local issues.

  • Include a paragraph of no more than four or five sentences (preceding your article) that both introduces the topic and identifies you as an experienced writer. For example:
    Dear Barbara Jones,

    I am submitting the enclosed article to the Franklin County Courier-Express for publication. This piece outlines the dangers to our community if Colossal-Mart is allowed to construct a mega-store in Johnstown. Should you have any questions please feel free to contact me. Thanks for your time and consideration.

    Cordially,
  • The op-ed piece should include the following information, preferably in this format:

    Name

    Address

    Daytime phone number

    Evening phone number

    Email address


    COLOSSAL-MART, THE EVIL EMPIRE (687 words)

    by

    Your Name


    Text begins here. After the last sentence, skip a line and type: THE END


  • Upon acceptance the editor will request your social security number for payment. Low budget, small-town newspapers may pay only $10 or $20, some, nothing at all. Big-city dailies offer up to $150 per article, more for a feature (and longer) Sunday piece. If an article will run in an out-of-town newspaper, ask the editor to send a "tear sheet" containing your work.


  • Some op-ed pieces can be turned into longer articles. I expanded an 800-word article "Outsourcing the American Dream" to 1,500 words and sold it to a national magazine.


  • Major metropolitan dailies receive hundreds of unsolicited op-ed pieces a week. Your chances for getting published are much better if you initially submit to smaller circulation newspapers. As your op-ed skills improve, start sending articles to big-city newspapers.

I've been fortunate to experience a modicum of success writing both fiction and non-fiction, and, like most authors, love to see my work in print. However, I get a special kick every time one of my op-ed pieces is accepted. There's nothing quite like having your opinions read by tens of thousands of individuals, and getting paid for the effort.


About the Author
After teaching sociology at the University of San Diego for 24 years, George J. Bryjak moved to the Adirondack Park region of New York state with his wife, Diane. His op-ed articles have appeared in USA Today, the San Diego Union-Tribune, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, and the Los Angeles Daily News, among other newspapers in the United States and Canada.


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

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

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Humor: Torment Behind the Art

Edward L. Flaim

Ordinary People, Ordinary Lives and Exaggeration: A Recipe for Humor

I am an ordinary person. If I were not, I would recognize the author of this well-known quotation, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” 1 This desperation transcends wealth, intellect and other characterizations we use to create a sense of uniqueness and distinguish the cast of characters on stage in the play called life. However, our commonalities exceed many folds our differences. We are born, we live, and we die. Life is merely a means of biding time while awaiting death. Although there may be a form of existence beyond death, none of us wish to resolve this question soon.

For those few who read this humor column, you're certainly wondering why the hyperlink purportedly reaching this column connected instead with the Realm of Hell. No, this is still a humor column with its depressing thoughts leading to the creation and necessity of humor to avoid insanity.

As stated in previous columns, or if not stated, it should have been, humor emerges from pain, anguish and frustration. Often the amateur humorist focuses on pain, anguish and frustration in others, leaving the audience to feel the humorist is devoid of these feelings, thus quickly alienating the audience as he is not one of them.  The successful humorist, even when ostensibly directing his humor at another person, never fails to leave the audience with the impression that he is the butt of the joke as well. He has lived the experience, identifies with the experience and is hence also the “victim” of his externally directed humor.

The ideal self-deprecating humorist was the late Rodney Dangerfield, with his tag lines of “never getting any respect.” “My wife asked our son to walk the dog. He put a collar around my neck and walked me to the park. At least I was amongst trees.” Most people except those lacking emotions can empathize with a lack of respect. Rodney, by exaggerating this phenomenon, made us laugh.

Humorists such as Art Buchwald, Jules Feiffer and Gary Trudeau utilized humor in an effort to remove President Nixon in a manner more effective than the serious political columnists during that crisis in government. In so doing, they continuously noted that the joke was on us and them, a joke potentially capable of destroying us. They eliminated the barrier between the “serious” political commentator and the humorist. Humor is now a highly valued political tool. They reached ordinary people with ordinary lives through exaggeration. In so doing, they never became pompous. They were part of the family, sitting at dinner tables and barstools with ordinary people like me and made their points.

I won’t try to emulate the humor of Dangerfield, Buchwald, Feiffer and Trudeau in this column. It’s not that I don’t have the time. It is rather the simple fact that each person has a unique style. I will try to write a brief story on a common event utilizing exaggeration. For the first time, I ask whatever audience I have to do the same and email your stories to me at Ed@wvu.org. I would like to show some of these unique styles by including a sampling of your stories in this column.

Here is my attempt to write humor by exaggerating fact. For a change of pace, I wrote this fact-based story as a journal entry to myself:

Journal of Ed Flaim and His Countless MPD Alters

Hey Fruit Loop!

It’s good to see you this morning. Not that you have much of a choice. As one of my thousands of alters that emerge regularly due to the greatly expanded need to produce more patients for psychiatrists, psychologists and others in the mental health field, who proliferate quicker than bunnies, you and my other alters are necessary to keep these cretins employed.

Well, Fruit Loop, I’ve had worse nights in my life. The time I was busted at the entrance to the Jersey Turnpike comes immediately to mind. However, I’ve had few, if any, more boring than my son’s graduation ceremony at the University of Minnesota’s undergraduate School of Technology. Christ! Thousands of people packed into an auditorium, forced to endure pompous academic pustules for hours before getting a fleeting glimpse of their nemesis children sliding across stage to receive a blank book. Hoping like hell that an honest-to-god diploma will ultimately follow that blank book. As soon as my son, Sean, stumbled and shook the hand of some devil dude with a red dress on, I needed to get out. Feet don’t fail me now! They didn’t and I dashed—yes, even I can occasionally dash—down three flights of stairs and shouldered my way through the door outside, too dazed to even smoke, collapsing to the sidewalk. I managed to crawl to a free concession stand adorned with moldy pastry and some blood red liquid in a cracked plastic punch bowl, but no relief there. Some mongoloid purportedly serving this crap said no punch ‘til the ceremony is over. Knowing that I couldn’t go without fluids for another 20 or so hours, I mugged a cyclist and peddled off to Coffman Union, bought a Diet Coke and reflected on the evening’s events.

I mean, Fruit Loop, there I had been, crunched into a massive auditorium with thousands of folks whose armpits spouted putrid waterfalls, glazed eyes staring at the supposedly best and the brightest technology had to offer, and not one of those suckers, even their gifted professors, had had the foresight to switch on the air conditioning! Hell, even I, philosopher, lawyer, drunk, know how to flick a switch! As folks leaped off balconies onto prostrate bodies below to escape the heat agony through a merciful death, these imbeciles droned on and on about their virtues and wisdom, giving meaningless awards to each other that no one gave a damn about. From time to time, one of the pompous profs would tack some poor nonagenarian geezer lady to a skate board and shove her to the podium, where she would hand some parchment, after drooling on the sacred document, to its revered recipient, who had made such great advancements to civilization as giving a few mil to refurbish the Dean’s mistress’ condo. God, the pomp and circumstance of higher education!

I don’t know how it ended. I’d like to believe they all became victims of the geezer’s ooze, slipping and sliding to a painful death on the drool-drenched stage. Highly unlikely, but a pleasant thought nonetheless.

Far from a masterpiece, I look forward to your essays to see how the sane will deal with this format and formulae.

1 Actually I know the author of this well known quotation—or rather, I know the name of the author of this quotation, who has been worm- and weevil-infested since 1862—which would remove me from the mass of ordinary people but for one irrelevant fact: I cheated. I was going to tell you the author was Henry David Thoreau but thought it more instructive for you to look it up. Either that, or determine whether the name provided is indeed the author’s name.  A devious smile crinkles my cheeks. Will they or won’t they? Not even The Shadow knows.

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

Rules To Write By

If you're not getting enough acceptances, maybe it's time to review the work you're sending out and look at it through an editor's eyes, not just your own. It may be hard, but you need to be objective, as an editor will be, to see how your work can be improved. Some writers feel every word they put down is a precious jewel, too valuable to ever be thrown out. The thought that someone else might want to change or, heaven forbid, shorten their work, is unthinkable. This is the mark of someone who has never been published, and sometimes the reason they haven't been.

Listed below are rules I follow with my own work, and they have helped quite a lot.

l. Never become complacent about your writing ability. Always look at the world around you for new ideas. The stimulus could be just a conversation with a friend, or a television program. It's important to be alert.

2. Thoroughly check manuscripts for grammar, punctuation, clarity and spelling before mailing them. Hold a manuscript for a few days, then check it again. You'll be surprised how many typos you find the second time around.

3. Never take offense at criticism, especially from an editor, without weighing the merits of the comment. Editors are usually deluged with manuscripts. One who takes the time to comment about even a rejected piece probably felt either the work or you had potential which could be developed further.

4. If you can, join a writing class or a writers' group to get objective, constructive input. While an aunt or a cousin might be kind and not want to say anything negative, this won't improve your writing. There is also a difference between constructive and destructive criticism. After a while, you will learn the difference.

5. Read as many novels and short stories as you can fit into your schedule. Doing so will help you gain new insights and ideas that may spark your memory bank. It can help you get rid of writer's block. I found this to be invaluable and always read as much as I can.

6. Always send for a sample copy and guidelines before submitting anything to a publication. Editors don't appreciate receiving material that is obviously not geared to their audience. It's a waste of good postage that can be put to much better use.

7. Either buy how-to books on writing or check out your local library branch. While writing is creative, there's also a very definite technical side to it. You can learn a lot about outlining plots, developing characters that come across as real people and creating scenes that the reader can see and feel.

8. Keep acceptance letters and check stubs organized, both to know whether you are making a reasonable amount from your writing or just "doing it for fun." Buy your stamps by the book or roll at a Post Office branch and pay for them by check. That way, you have a permanent record of postage expenses for yourself and the IRS at tax time. Don't forget to deduct the cost of any other supplies, such as typing or computer paper, ribbons, copying material or charges. Although it may be a bit painful at first, it's a good idea to keep your rejection slips in case the IRS decides to see what you're taking off is legitimate. This way, you can show them the complete picture of how those expenses were generated.

Following these guidelines should help you succeed. When you find that most-welcomed check in the mailbox, you'll know it was well worth the effort.


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.


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

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Fiction Short Story

by Chris Marselli

Baby Food

One woman raised her hand and Carmen nodded toward her.

"What happens if you can't get your milk flowing?"

"Like they mentioned in the video, the first couple hours are the most important, but if it doesn't happen, don't worry. Today there are lots of steps you can take before giving up. Always start with the assumption that your baby will be breastfed for at least the first several months and work from there. It wasn't long ago that formula didn't even exist, so new moms had to figure out how to breastfeed. It may seem strange at first, but it's the most natural and sensible thing you can do."

"And probably most important of all is the bonding between you and your child. You don't want to miss that experience."

Hope scanned the room. She sensed that her comment might be a bit inappropriate. After last week's class, Carmen had asked her to try to leave more space for others to participate.

-----

Hope got into her minivan and sped across town to Memorial Hospital to catch a presentation by a child psychologist. She wanted to be as prepared as possible. Her first marriage, along with several attempts to get pregnant, included five failed in vitro fertilizations. After the divorce, Hope was more determined than ever. She read just about every book on pregnancy and parenting she could get her hands on, prepared the baby's room, and bought clothes for the first year, the stroller, car seat, crib, high chair, and a pile of toys, books, stuffed animals, and dolls.

The prenatal classes gave Hope a boost, but she worried that she wasn't showing. Some time during the third month of classes she found PregPros.com, a prosthetics company that specialized in devices for the movie industry.

Hope ordered a four-month model for nearly $500. Ten days later it was on her doorstep when she arrived home from work on Friday. She carried the box upstairs to her bedroom, dropped her jacket and briefcase on the floor, and set the box on her bed. She pounced on it, jerking the lid open to get past the packaging tape and on to the contents inside.

The skin felt almost real, and the tone was nearly perfect. They had matched it to the color swatch she had provided along with her measurements. The navel seemed a bit odd, but she imagined that it was how hers might look at four months.

Hope took off her shirt and pants. She wrapped the device around her stomach, buckling and pulling the three straps that fastened behind her back tight. The skin sections extended around with the straps and there was a flap that hung below her waist that she tucked into her underwear. Hope opened the pamphlet that lay on her bed, glanced at the drawing to confirm that she had done everything right, and turned to look at herself in the full-length mirror on her closet door.

She put her hand to her mouth and let out a quick nervous giggle. She was pregnant. Hope put both hands on her belly and rubbed it as she had seen so many other expecting mothers do over the years. She waddled to the closet and picked out and put on one of her maternity dresses, a blue denim jumper. The fit was just right.

-----

Hope returned to work two Monday's later after taking the entire Thanksgiving week off. She was still able to wear her normal professional attire and wasn't obviously showing, but had already decided to let her boss and colleagues know that she was nearly four months into her pregnancy.

Later that week in her prenatal class, Carmen noticed right away.

"A couple weeks go by and now you're showing. It always seems to go that way, especially with the thinner women. Nothing looks different, then boom, it's really obvious."

-----

Hope's pregnancy went along smoothly. She used her clothes to gradually uncover and expose her fading waistline, wearing progressively looser-fitting garments as the weeks ticked by. After a few months, she ordered the six to seven month device from PregPros and started the process over again.

One night during her seventh month, she sat in the baby's room in the rocking chair next to the crib, listening to the "Free Floating, Sounds from the Womb" CD, and eating jars of organic baby food. She stopped and looked up. She had felt something move. Hope put her hand on her belly and waited in vain for it to happen again.

-----

Carmen covered birthing positions in one of the classes during the final weeks. The topic fascinated Hope and she had already studied it quite extensively. At the end of the class time, Carmen offered to give a quick tour of the maternity ward to anyone interested in staying. Hope jumped at the opportunity and joined three others from her class.

The tour started in one of the private rooms and moved onto the more sterile and medically-equipped delivery area. Carmen highlighted the things relevant to the day's topic in both rooms. They wrapped up the tour with a stop at the windows of the nursery—six babies in six little clear plastic hospital cribs, each on a cart, like room service trays waiting to be delivered to their guests.

Hope stared at the living, breathing babies. She sagged forward against the window, catching herself with her hands on the glass. She quietly cried. Carmen put an arm around her.

"It's ok."

"I'm afraid I'll never be a mother."

"You're almost there. I know you can do it. You're my most determined and enthusiastic student."

Hope regained her composure and left the hospital. Carmen had been right. She could do it if she just stuck to it.

-----

Over the next few weeks, Hope redoubled her efforts. She finished the preparations at home, settled on Heather as her baby's name, ordered the full-term prosthetic, and made her final plans at work and at the hospital.

Four days after the due date she had set, Hope called her boss to let her know that she had started to go into labor.

At ten at night, she took off her prosthetic, put on her scrubs, and headed off to the hospital. She beeped herself into the maternity wing with Carmen's prox card and made her way straight into the nursery where five newborns slept.

Everything was going as planned, but as Hope approached the cribs, she froze. The collective calm, the magic of the five sleeping angels, held her in place.

One of the babies began to cry and broke the spell. Hope moved instinctively toward the crib and picked up the boy, so tiny and helpless with a full head of dark hair and lanugo fuzz on his shoulders and arms. His red complexion grew redder as he cried. Hope rocked him gently and sang to him.

"The sun has gone to sleep.
The moon's already out.
The stars are all twinkling.
Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight."

He calmed down and fell back asleep, limp in her arms. She noticed the strap on his left wrist, Jason William Stevens, and wondered what his mother's name might be.

Hope bent to put Jason back in his crib when the nurse entered the ward.

"I didn't know there was anybody else on duty."

Hope hesitated.

"I'm not. Actually, I...I just needed to hold this baby. I mean, this baby needed to be held."

The nurse looked at Hope without speaking. Hope stared down at Jason for a moment and things came into focus.

"I seem to have misplaced my purse and came in to see if I might have left it in the nursery. The last I remember having it was here just as I was leaving at the end of my shift earlier today, so I came by to see if I could find it. When the baby cried, I naturally picked him up."

"Did you find it?"

"Unfortunately no, but at least I know I'm not going to find it here."

Hope turned and walked out of the room, went to her minivan and drove home. When she arrived, she unhooked the car seat and brought it inside, and spent the next three hours boxing up all of Heather's things.

-----

Two days later, Hope called her boss and told her that she had lost the baby in the delivery and that she would be in touch as soon as she felt able.


About the Author
Chris Marselli lives on Spain's Costa Brava with his wife and son. His non-fiction articles have appeared in Catalunya Lifestyle.


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Fiction Short Story

by Donna Sundblad

Close to Home

"Chug, chug, chug," the partiers chanted. Mike DuPont slammed his empty beer can onto the table, wiped his mouth and let a loud burp rip. His competitor finished seconds behind him.

Tara raised Mike's arm. "The winner!" She pressed her lips against his. He tipped back in the chair, she straddled his lap, and they fell over in a tangle of arms, legs and giggles.

Later that afternoon he stood at the door, his arms draped around Tara's waist. "Great party."

"You okay to drive?" she asked. Her strawberry blonde eyebrows arched as she rested her head against his chest.

"No problem. It's only a couple of miles. I told my parents I'd be home before dark." He turned and bumped into the doorjamb.

"Mike!"

"Just kidding." He rubbed his head and laughed. "I'll be fine."

He climbed into his Taurus and fumbled with his keys. The key wouldn't slide into the ignition. He studied the offending gadget with crossed eyes. "The house key!" His body shook with laughter. On the third try, the car key slipped into the ignition and the engine roared to life. Tara stood on the porch and blew a kiss in his direction while she blocked the setting sun from her eyes with her other hand.

Mike followed the back roads home. He knew the way blindfolded. The tree lined country road stretched into twilight, as the large red sun hung low on the horizon. The Taurus reached the apex of a small rise when a pair of deer darted across the road. Mike slammed on his brakes, and skidded sideways into the opposite lane and onto the grassy shoulder, where the car did a doughnut.

His heart pounded in his chest. Mike blinked as the two animals disappeared into the brush in front of him. "That was close." The acrid smell of burnt rubber caught up with him as he threw the car into reverse and crawled onto the black top. The setting sun warmed the car and his eyelids grew heavy as he neared home. "Man, I can't wait to get to the house."

Shadows played tricks with his eyes. Sun rays shot strobe-like bursts from behind each tree. Thump. His bumper had grazed something large. He glanced into his rearview mirror. Nothing. Mike rubbed his eyes and squinted into the dusky light. "I must be imagining things." When he pulled into the driveway and stumbled out of his car, he noticed a broken right headlight and dented fender.  I wasn't imagining it. Dad's gonna kill me. Mike groaned inwardly when his dad stepped from the front door.

"Hey, Mike. Have fun at the. What happen to the car?"

Mike swallowed hard and tucked his hands into his pockets. "I think I hit a deer."

"You think you hit a deer?"

"The sun blinded me." He nervously combed his fingers through his dark hair.

His dad crouched in front of the car. "Let's go find out. Where did it happen?"

"Hunt Club Road." A bubble of gas worked its way up Mike's throat and escaped into a raucous, juicy belch.

Mike's dad stood face to face with him. His nose crinkled. "How much did you have to drink?"

"Just a couple of beers," he lied.

His dad shook his head. "Let's go find that deer."

The sun fell behind the horizon and darkness swallowed the country road as the father and son backtracked. The beam from one headlight bounced along the landscape. "Let me know when we're close."

Mike avoided looking at his dad. "I don't know, Dad," Mike whined. "I don't remember." He held his head in his hands.

His dad slammed his fist into the steering wheel. "You better damn well remember. You hit something, Mike."

Mike slumped into his seat and chewed at the edge of his thumbnail. He stared into the limited light offered by the remaining headlight. "What's that?" he asked pointing at a beam of light swinging along the side of the road. Mike's felt the car slow as they approached a man carrying a flashlight.

Mike's dad rolled the driver's side window down. "Hey, Ralph. What are you doing out here?"

"Frannie went out for a walk and hasn't come home. She's been miserable with this pregnancy and walking helps her sleep. I can't figure what's happened to her. I called 911, but I couldn't wait for them. I need to find her."

Mike, trying to hide from the possibilities, wilted into his seat. Did I hit her? Oh, my God? Did I hit Fran?

"We'll help you look for her," Mike's dad said. "What can we do?"

Ralph's lip quivered. "Ed, I'm afraid something has happened to her."

Mike's dad nodded. "We'll drive the route she walks. If we don't see her, we'll come back to get you and head back to your place to meet the police."

Ralph nodded.

Silence blanketed the interior of the Taurus like a shroud. "Mike," his father glanced at his him, "Is there any way you could have hit Fran?"

Mike didn't say a word.

"Mike!" his dad shouted. "Tell me you didn't hit Fran!"

"I don't know! I don't know," he screamed. "I don't know," he whimpered and broke into body wrenching sobs. "Oh, God, Dad, I didn't mean to."

They followed the circuit Fran walked with no sign of the young woman, and headed back to find Ralph. "What are you gonna tell him, Dad?"

"I don't know." Mike's dad's jaw muscles tightened. He pulled up behind Ralph and climbed out of the car. "I'm sorry, Ralph. No sign of her."

"What's this?" Ralph asked as the beam of his flashlight glittered across shards of broken glass sprinkled on the side of the road.

"Come on, Mike, get out of the car."

Mike hung his head and followed the two men into the brush. "Oh, my God, what have I done?" he moaned.

"What's he talking about?" Ralph asked. He turned to look at the boy and the beam from his flashlight sliced through the dark and brushed across a still form in the ditch.

"Over there," Mike's dad pointed to the obscure shape just beyond the reach of the light.

Mike stood paralyzed.

The chirping of a cell phone made Mike jump. Ralph handed the flashlight to Mike's dad, and answered his phone. "Hello." He covered his ear and turned his head to get better reception. "Hello."

Mike watched his father walk toward the still form hidden in the tall grass. This feels like a dream. This can't be happening. He glanced at Ralph who was still talking on the phone and followed his father. "I'm going to be sick," he announced hoarsely. Weak-kneed he fell to the ground and wretched. He wiped his mouth and glanced toward the light reflecting off the soft brown hair of his victim. Lifeless brown eyes seemed to stare back at him.

Mike jumped as Ralph rested his hand on his shoulder. "You okay, Mike?"

The youth offered a feeble nod.

"I've got to get to the hospital, Ed," Ralph said as he turned his attention to Mike's dad. "Can you give me a lift? Frannie went into premature labor. Al Tucker found her along the road, and gave her a lift."

"Sure, Ralph. Happy to. Come on, Mike, get in the car."

Mike glanced back toward the dead body hidden by the veil of night. I'll never drink and drive again, he vowed to himself and crawled into the back seat.


About the Author
Donna resides in Florida with her husband, Rick. Her freelance publishing credits range from nonfiction to fictional short stories, articles on the craft of writing, and in early 2005, her writing book, Pumping Your Muse, is due to be released by ePress. Donna's short story, "Shelter In the Shadows," is listed among those nominated for the 2005 Edgar Award. She is also a partner at Team Spirit Critique and Editing, LLC. For more information check out her website at http://www.theinkslinger.net.


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

by Maria Robinson

Conversation

Jane phoned me.  Sitting in the center of my kitchen-of-an-apartment, I watched how the street changed colors, like a capricious woman choosing dresses, finally picking out the violet of the evening lights. A cup of dark, flat coffee had been warming my hands. The ticking of the wooden clock, hanging an arm's length above the divan, slowed its pace.  The life surrounding me appeared slightly more intricate and fragile. 

The ringing filled the room, overtaking the cancerous silence.  Reaching for the phone, I cleared my throat and grabbed the receiver.

"It's me." Jane spoke as if fighting off a shiver.  "I just got back from New York." She couldn't help stuttering, and repeating little, trivial phrases.  "New York. You remember. I was in New York. I - I feel like coffee.  Fresh, hot coffee."  I sensed her thoughts spilling over.  "You know that small café on the street corner?  I know it's a little cheap-looking from the outside, but inside it has a kind of charm.  I used to love going there when I was in college.  But now it'd seem kind of infantile to do, wouldn't it?"

My coffee stirred. 

"Of course, if you'd like to go," she continued, "It'd be nice to relive some moments again. I'd actually enjoy it right now. It's quite cold, and it's good for your health to have something warm. I read that somewhere..."

"I was actually..."

"Oh, you'll come, won't you?  It'd give you the chance to ask me some questions about New York. I know how you like the city...and coffee, and that lovely café."

I noticed that my phone was spotless, but that dust had gathered on the table.  When I ran my finger against the dirt it seemed to latch onto my skin. I had to bring it up real close to examine it.  Most of the dust in a house is skin.
          
As I thought about this I noticed that there was no one on the line.  She must have taken my silence as an agreement.  I'd go, but I'd have to remember to clean afterwards.  People tend to neglect the filth that piles up around them.  It's part of absent-mindedness, which is really a sign of weak character.  You can control your health, your happiness, even your destiny through your environment.  It's all a matter of having the will. 

When I rubbed my index finger and thumb, the filth just speckled down.  Huh.  I grabbed for my black European raincoat, and I remembered that I'd have to bolt the doors.  I forgot to do that last time.  When was the last time?  I really didn't want to go out now, but it seemed that as soon as I thought that, I had been looking at her. 

"Here you are!" Jane leaped onto my sleeve, and tugged.  "First thing I thought to do was call you." I pulled out a chair. "Because you know, you hear about these things happening on the news or in movies, but to me? During my first time in New York?" She shook her head and said, "Uum, two cups of coffee, one black and the other with cream?" I nodded.

"And you never believe these things," Jane flapped her collar.  "But, uh, I was just walking and you know, no matter what they say," she leaned close, to tell me in confidence, "New York is just lovely at night when the buildings are silhouetted and you can see the gorgeous skyline. But what was I saying? Oh, and so I was walking, for what couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes" —she ripped a sugar packet—"and this man, just like in the movies, appeared from out of nowhere, and with all those what must have been three-hundred pounds of him, and you won't believe this, he charged me right into a brick wall " She spoke loudly, high-pitched, and almost triumphantly.

The sugar dissolved as Jane continued.  "So there I am with my back pinned against this wall in complete shock and out-of-sorts, with no clue of what this giant had in mind.  I mean, you hear about those stories where men rape young women right then and there.  You know, take it out, stick and go." Even outraged she managed a giggle, and then a sip of her coffee. Her eyes shifted around the tables.  "But instead he whips out a knife and takes the blade right out. Like he's done it before. I could tell he'd done it before. Then he waves it around, right in my face   I remember the first thing he said; he said, 'Shut up'."

Real loud and manly, she mimicked it.

"Well, of course, I'm paralyzed by fear, so it's not like I'm about to start a conversation." She openly laughed at herself. "So, I don't say anything but he presses that knife right to my throat, right there." She got out of her chair and reached out a cold hand and pressed it against my gullet. "Right there," she repeated, "and I could feel the cold ridges of the blade and how hard they were against me. And all this time he's yelling something, he just kept yelling and yelling, and I, of course, just got more frightened. But each time I breathed in, the knife went up a little higher and pressed a little more against my skin.  And I knew—I knew if I were to breathe out and relax, I would put my whole throat onto that blade and it would"—she gathered all her breath—"rip open."  A big sigh heaved out of her, but she washed it all down with her coffee.

"I tried to control my breathing; I needed some hold on myself, and maybe I could try to talk this lunatic into letting me go." She inched closer to me. "So I started thinking. The first thing that jumped into my head was—and this is sort of funny"—for a moment a forced smile stretched her mouth—"I wondered if I left anything turned on back at home.  And then I wondered if Robert was cheating on me with that co-worker, and then I got sidetracked  thinking about my trip home and whether the train I was taking would be there on time or if I'd have to wait, like I always do, for thirty goddamn minutes, standing there looking like a fool with nothing to do." She took a breath. "And that's when I noticed" —Jane unexpectedly flushed—"that the man's breath smelled like pasta and something like mushroom sauce, and that being the heavy man that he was, he should probably be watching what he eats. And then cardiac arrest came into my head, and how when people grow old their skin is like an infant's only, only theirs means something final, irrevocable..."

Suddenly, she paused. The pause hung in the air maybe for a minute. And a crystal-like film covered her eyes, which meant she wasn't really in the café anymore.

From a listener I became an observer.  Her offbeat breathing started to tick me off.  The bead of sweat dripping off her chin down the rim of her collar was a sorry sight.  I sipped and met her eyes as she spoke to show her that I had been paying attention, and hoped my calm would settle her.

She shook her head as if awaking. "I threw out my wallet." Her arm retraced the parabola. I wondered how the cup of coffee wasn't caught by her sleeve. "And he took it and left.  That was it for the adventure."  She looked directly into my eyes and must have caught the expression I had no time to hide. "But you know, I can't remember very clearly.  Oh, it seems my headache has started.  My mother calls it a migraine, but what difference does it make—migraines or headaches?"  Nervously, she started going through her handbag.

Then the sounds changed and she was settled.  There was no more sappy breathing or hysterics.  Her eyes were on her coffee and she looked composed.  "Robert's cheating on me." 

She fingered the handle of her cup once, and that was it.  She couldn't remember what it was she wanted to tell me. Why she called.  "I'm sorry, oh God, I'm so sorry! I forgot my money somewhere."  Her dignity crumbled as she broke down, faltering and repeating nervous little phrases.

"That's fine. Don't worry." My hand slipped easily along the smooth exterior of the raincoat.  I placed a five-dollar bill under the cup, face up. With the chair slid back away from the table, I stood up and let my hand squeeze her shoulder.  From the table I noticed a gruesome painting.  Examining it, I could tell it had been done by a dilettante, that it smelt of something tactless, and was not as violent as it appeared from a distance. 

On my way out of the café, I thought about the kind of nourishing disappointment the painting gave me.


About the Author
Maria Robinson is eighteen years old and attends the University of Iowa.  She has been published in her high school magazine, PBW.  Currently she is interested in the various perspectives of egoism, and this short story was, in part, a way of exploring this particular theme.


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Fiction Short Story

by Wayne Scheer

Visiting Mama

Masie Taylor pulled her son to her and kissed his brown cheek. "You a good man, Boo. Just like your daddy. Best of the lot, we used to say." She squeezed his arm. "You go home to Deloris and the children. Y'all don't need to worry 'bout me none."

Bernard had made the drive to Edison from Atlanta, determined to bring his mother to his home, at least for the summer. It wasn't easy talking Deloris, his wife, into converting her office into a guest bedroom, but she understood that a seventy-eight-year-old woman, whose husband recently died, shouldn't live by herself during a South Georgia summer.

"Your mother's a hard woman to live with," she confided in her husband. "It'll be difficult for both us."

"Don't I know it," he said, kissing Deloris and repeating, "Don't I know it."

They tried convincing his mother when Bernard's father was still alive to let them install an air conditioner. Masie refused. "I ain't never had no air condition and I don't need none now. I like my air fresh, so's I can smell the grass." Bernard recalled her saying that as far back as he could remember.

"Your mama 'bout as stubborn as a three-legged mule," his father had said. "Even when she falls down, she still be kicking."

It would have been easier had his mother gone first. Bernard understood this. His father was easy going, eager to please. He had to be, to be married to Mama for over fifty years. "Always listen to Mama," his father would say with a smile. "It be a whole lot easier on you in the long run."

Still, Bernard thought he could persuade her to move in with them. The scar on her forehead from her last fall marked her dark, wrinkled skin. The doctor told them her diabetes caused what he called silent heart attacks. Bernard noticed her getting weaker, but she still could stare down a charging bull if she had to. He knew it would be easier carrying a baby grand up five flights of stairs than moving Mama to their home.

He even tried convincing Miss Ella, Mama's neighbor and oldest friend, to move in with her. The woman, only a few years younger than Masie, looked at Bernard like he was insane. "I loves Masie like my own sister, but if we that close, one of us end up dead, for sure." Hiring a stranger to stay with Mama was out of the question.

So they decided on a different strategy. A visit. It was late March, the daffodils had already faded and hints of summer humidity filled the air. Bernard and Deloris visited with Mama and posed their idea of her staying with them for the summer. Bernard pleaded and Deloris added, "You know how Andrew and Danielle love their grandmother. And Monty and Tyra and the baby live close enough so you can watch your great granddaughter take her first steps."

Masie pushed her tongue under her dentures. He knew that meant she was thinking. "I got to be here for when the azaleas bloom," she finally said.

It was now May; the red and white azaleas alongside Mama's house had long turned brown. Bernard and Deloris talked on the telephone with Masie and made arrangements. At least, they tried. Mama made little more than clicking sounds and an occasional "mm-hmm." Bernard considered it hopeful that she hadn't cussed them out, so he drove down to help her pack.

But she wouldn't budge. She may as well have been standing on her porch, pointing a rifle at a revenue man come to force her off her homestead.

Bernard argued with his mother for more than two hours, even during the meal she had prepared of baked ham with collard greens, mashed potatoes and fried green tomatoes, picked that morning from her garden. Masie stayed determined to prove her independence.

"But, Mama, it's dangerous living alone."

"Pshew! You want me to move in with your fam'ly? You think of anything more dangerous than two womens in the same kitchen? "

Bernard had to laugh. "We'll work it out, Mama. Deloris will be thrilled not to have to cook as often."

"As often? The only reason y'all has a kitchen is it come with the house."

Bernard shook his head.

After dessert of sweet potato pie, she stood at the sink washing dishes while Bernard dried. "Your daddy and Uncle Cletus built this house with they own hands. You think I could just up and leave it like it was nothing but wood and paint?"

Bernard played what he considered his strongest card. "Mama, you've been falling down lately. If Miss Ella hadn't found you the last time, I don't know what would have happened."

"What you think woulda happened? Jesus woulda blessed my black self a little sooner, tha's all."

"Don't talk like that, Mama." Bernard held his mother in his arms. "The kids need you. I want all of them, including your great grandbaby, to know you."

"Then bring 'em round more. Monty and his wife come here with the baby and wouldn't even let me feed 'em. Say they on some kinda low-carbonated diet. She so skinny she 'bout split in two when I give her a hug." Bernard followed his mother through the dark living room with the same faded floral wallpaper he remembered as a boy. Family portraits, many in black and white, hung on the walls. Color photographs in new frames filled the tops of almost every flat surface. "Y'all send me some pretty pictures, but you sure don't come by much."

Bernard knew she was right. It was only a three and a half hour drive from Atlanta, but they made the trip at best once a month, and rarely stayed overnight. He'd have to urge Monty and Tyra to make the trek more than just Christmas and Easter. Worse, he'd have to convince Deloris they should spend some weekends visiting Mama.

"Y'all don't want me in your way, and I sure don't want y'all in mines. Let me die in my home. Tha's all I ask."

Masie pushed her son to the door, handing him a warm sweet potato pie wrapped in tin foil. Bernard refused the leftover chicken and collards. There were no fried green tomatoes left.

"You don't make it easy." Bernard smiled, holding out his arms to hug his mother.

Masie pushed her dentures out with her tongue. "At my age, I don't reckon I got to."


About the Author
After teaching writing and literature in college for twenty-five years, Wayne Scheer retired to follow his own advice and write. His recent stories have appeared in The Pedestal, Thought Magazine, River Walk Journal and Skyline Magazine. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2002. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.


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Drabble Corner The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz

Respect! This month's Drabble on the subject is written by Ralph Wahlstrom.

Descending Levels of Respect

kick me not

kick me

kick me hard

kick me once

kick me twice

kick me three times

kick me four times

kick me five times

kick me six times

kick me seven times

kick me eight times

kick me nine times

kick me ten times

kick me eleven times

kick me twelve times

kick me thirteen times

kick me fourteen times

kick me fifteen times

kick me sixteen times

kick me seventeen times

kick me eighteen times

kick me nineteen times

kick me twenty times

kick me thirty times

kick me forty times

kick me fifty times

kick me

Stupid question: Did you ever do something that you knew was not at all good for you but you were compelled to do it anyway? It can be love, of course. Yet it can also be milk shakes or wine. It's insidious in that in the right proportions, none of the above is necessarily self-destructive—it's only when we keep at it and at it after the point of moderation has passed that we create problems.

The thing about it being love, though, is that because it's love, the relationship appears to have redeeming social value no matter what it's like, no matter how much you're getting hurt. You can say, "Well, that's not love, then"—but it is, I think; it's just twisted here and there so that what you need takes on more importance than what you have to give. And it seems, too, that the more you mess up the relationship, the more you need from it in order to compensate for the messed up relationship.

What have you had too much of? Love? Candy bars? Our theme for February is Too Much! Use your imagination if you must. Here are the Guidelines. Submit your Drabble for March, due by February 10, to drabble@wvu.org. See you next time.


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!

Shri Henkel, writing as Nikki Leigh, received a contract for her novel, Stormy View, from Wings ePress. It is a novel about love bridging the differences between a humble lighthouse keeper’s daughter and the son of a wealthy and powerful attorney. Can it survive his manipulative mother and her chauvinistic father?

Stormy View is the tale of romance and deception where things aren’t what they seem. On the tenth anniversary to his wife, Kennalyn, David is injured in a boat accident. He dies several days later, leaving her alone with a young daughter and an unborn child. Kennalyn struggles to establish a life for her family. Years later, a familiar face appears. Will this return guarantee Kennalyn’s happiness? Many lives will change forever.

When Nikki Leigh first received her contract, she felt total elation. “It was the first big step in realizing my dream of seeing my own novels in print. I signed the contract in June 2004, but I still contend that the news hasn't totally hit me. I feel sure that it will hit me when the final galleys hit my desk.

“At some point I want to convey the time, place and character to the degree Maeve Binchy does. Reading her stories makes me feel that I am walking down the street with her characters and absorbing the details of the setting without overwhelming me with too many details.

”I've always been creative, but I wanted to write when I was in elementary school. I'm still trying to locate my grade school teacher who had the confidence that I could accomplish any goal, including writing. I love lighthouses, the beach, history and photography. These interests all help me in the development of my stories. The historic trilogy that I'm working on has required a lot of research. One thing that is making it easier is that my two completed novels are set in the same area. The novel I'm working on now is set on the Cape Ann coast of Massachusetts but will also begin to focus on the history of coastal North Carolina, which will play a part in the next two books. I have also visited all the areas in my novels, which lends more authenticity to my stories.”

Nikki joined WVU in July of 2001. She has been in many study groups but is currently a member of the Misfits and pops into Timeless Tales from time to time. “WVU has given me the chance to dramatically improve my skills. The encouragements of other members along with their critiques and input have been invaluable. Buying myself a lifetime membership to WVU was the greatest gift I've given myself. “

Nikki is a partner in a construction firm in Albemarle County of Virginia. Some of the residents include: John Grisham, Cissy Spacek, Rita Mae Brown, Howie Long, the members of The Dave Matthews Band, and so on. She also owns a small business-consulting firm, which helps to reorganize and establish small businesses, and she is beginning to design web sites for a variety of businesses. To find out more about Nikki Leigh, visit her website at http://www.nikkileigh.com.

Maria Desrosiers submitted The Phoenix to Wings ePress. Due out in August of 2006, Maria wishes it were a little closer, “But, hey, I can't complain.”

In this novel, independent Aveline DeLarue needs the challenge of the seas and the freedom to carry on her secret life as a pirate. Her ship, The Phoenix, is the pride of the seas and the envy of many a pirate. Her identity is well hidden by the mask she wears at all times when at sea. Married to the dour Justin, she has the liberty to pursue her life without interference so long as she gives him an heir, but when the Dragon enters her life—a fever spreads through her heart. Her two lives collide and threaten to destroy one or the other.

Shattered by his wife’s death, Justin marries for duty and to advance the Montegry line. Ava fits the bill perfectly for a meek and retiring wife, and that should leave him free to pursue his life at sea as the dreaded Dragon. For him the need to command The Phoenix and its mysterious owner is a compulsion he can’t ignore. The lovely lady pirate commands his heart, but uncovering her identity could destroy his life with Ava.

“My first reaction when I saw the email in my mailbox was fear! My heart pounded hard against my ribs. I started shaking all over and I ran and got my husband. I couldn’t open the email. Even after weeks of telling myself a rejection wouldn’t matter, that it’s all a part of the process of being a writer, yadda, yadda, yadda... It mattered A LOT.

“I started crying even before I knew the answer. My husband, Andrew, looked at me and asked, 'What’s wrong?'

"I said, 'I got the email from Wings and I’m afraid to read it. I don’t want to be rejected.'

"I never realized how scary it would be. This was my first submission and if it wasn’t for my friend Cheryl pushing and shoving me, I doubt I would have submitted. She gave me the confidence to submit. She read the story and said it was good, and I’m regressing...

"Now I was crying because I got a contract and a nice letter telling me they are pleased to inform me they wanted my novel. I smacked hubby on the shoulder and told him to move. Andy gave me a big hug and kiss. I sat and read the contract and letter over and over a few times till it all sank in. I called my mom and told her the news.

"I’m still in awe that I got a contract and every occasionally I reread it to make sure that it really happened."

When Maria was in grammar school, she loved to read and write. She particularly loves to write and read romance. Deciding to get more serious, finding what is out there for writing courses, and seeing where this takes her, she joined WVU. Since then, she has written a number of stories and taken a lot of courses.

“I’ve been at WVU for about three years now. I’m in Word Slingers, and everyone is awesome in the group. They all are very supportive, give great feedback and are like a second family. I’ve met some very good friends and writers, who’ve helped me tremendously through the past years: Cheryl, Lori, Phax and Pee Wee; they’ve all helped me learn and hold a special place in helping me to become a better writer and person.

"Dorice Nelson helped me learn a lot when I first joined WVU, and I thank her for all the great learning activities she took the time to post for everyone. Without her, I doubt I would have been so determined to learn grammar, to show not tell, and many other valuable lessons."

Maria lives in a small town in New Hampshire where she raises her three children, Marcus, Delphine and Joseph. Andrew, her husband of over ten years, and their children are the loves of her heart. Their pets are an enduring and tolerant, yellow fuzz ball of a cat, Simba, a turtle, Francis, and a kissing fish. To find out more about Maria, visit her website at http://www.mariadesrosiers.com.

Helen V. Lundt hit a double with her story "Yesterday," a beautiful tale of a WWII Christmas, at U.S Legacies. It appeared on its website in December 2004 and will be on newsstands in its December 2005 issue.

A frequent contributor to T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine, Helen said, “My reaction when I saw that my story was accepted was WOW! I was and still am, so excited and thrilled that someone accepted my work.”

Helen has also been published several times over the last 15 years. In the fall of 1990, "The Guest Book" and an article about "The Coachmen Queen" were published in Coachmen Capers, and in the same periodical in 1991, "Reflections About Space Travel." "I write for the local associations, such as The Chenango Canal, doing poems and skits for special occasions. I'm also known locally as "The Red Hatter Poet," writing an occasional poem and prayer.

"My favorite writer is James Michener, because of his realistic writing, sometimes very poetic in his descriptions. Deep in meaning, accurate in detail.

"I've always known that I wanted to write, or rather, I just always did write, as far back as I can remember holding a pen. I know in the fourth grade, I wrote a poem that wasn't very good but I found it so easy to do, and the praise wasn't hard to take."

Helen’s hobbies include learning about computers but mostly relate to writing. She takes classes that help her a great deal with her writing skills at WVU, which she joined about three years ago. She belongs to Word Weavers, Flash Fiction and The Children’s Hour study groups.

“We travel—Florida in the winter for three or four months—and that is a different lifestyle, again guiding me in writing about subjects I wouldn't know about if I stayed at home in New York State all year. I do volunteer work at the local nursing home. There, again, I learn from my elders and sometimes a poem will be the result. We're very active socially, with my mind always reaching for a story within the group that we happen to be with. I used to sketch and paint but don't find time for that anymore.

“As for my personal life, I am a retired nurse—after twenty-eight years in the health field. I lost my first husband when we were very young, and finished bringing up my four daughters myself. They were teenagers at the time. Now, they're all married, I'm a grandmother of six, and I have remarried—a great guy, also retired. We traveled a lot in our motor-home and now drive by car to the sunny south in the winter months. I feel very fortunate in my aging years. I think I'm getting younger as I age.”

Congratulations, Nikki, Maria and Helen. 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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Poetics Presents

Johanna Donovan

Johanna Donovan is a transplanted European and empty-nester obsessed with poetry, an obsession nurtured and fueled by Writers' Village University. She lives in New England with her husband, Michael, and their brown lab, Zoe, who has a supporting role in many of her poems.

Dream Lien

No wonder her ire's extreme
as she tries to abolish this thought,
"Her wealth is tied up in a dream",

a dream that dissolves and is seen
as a fountain most avidly sought.
No wonder her ire's extreme.

So far she's had reason to preen -
to bask in her gifts; be called "hot".
Her wealth is tied up in a dream.

She looks in the mirror; covets what's been.
Her pulchritude's fading; suffering draught.
No wonder her ire's extreme.

She's learned that the bloom is on lien -
depends now on potions in pots.
Her wealth's fading fast and with it her dream

Time was her ally, now throws a screen
on features that glowed, skin lean and taut.
No wonder her ire's extreme.

Her wealth was tied up in a dream.

Copyright ©2005 by Johanna Donovan




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Poetics Presents

Jean Robor

Jean Bailey Robor has been writing poetry and prose of various genres for 20+ years. She lives in North Carolina with her husband, Thomas, and favorite furry friend, Maxie.

Dreams
In this city of light
Darkness reigns in nether regions.
Terrain of the damned.
Turning, turning, matter churning,
Icy fingers reach inside.
Open orbs backward, lids closed.
All-seeing, all-knowing,
Sprites of delusional worlds
Dancing darkly.
Flitting here, flitting there,
Against backdrops of cornflower stars.

Copyright ©2005 by Jean Robor




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Submissions Guidelines (Updated)

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

What We Pay For

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What We Publish

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

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

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

What We Won't Publish

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

Simultaneous submissions.

Material that has appeared elsewhere (reprints).

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

Length Recommendations

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

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

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

Rights

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

Formats We Will Accept

Plain text in the body of an email.

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

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

Editing

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

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

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

Getting to Know You

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

How and Where to Submit

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

Fiction should be sent to fiction@thewritersezine.com.

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

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

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

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

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

Good luck!


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