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The Writer's E-Zine

 

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

Shanna Lewis

How I Landed a Job as a Reporter and Photographer for a Small-town Newspaper

Intimidated by the small gray house with the white picket fence, I leaned hard into the red-painted front door. Locked every other time I’d tried, now it flew open, propelling me over the threshold and into the local newspaper office.

The only thing that had gotten me past the white gate to begin with was my sincere belief that there was no way I’d get a job working there. So, I thought, I could casually stop in, ask for work, and be turned down. Then I could write the “job contact” on my unemployment form for the week. I’d stopped by several times before, never realizing that since the newspaper came out on Thursdays, the office was often unstaffed on Fridays and weekends, hence the locked door.

A friendly man with a balding pate and a big mustache sat behind the front desk and asked if he could help me. Emboldened by the certainty that I wouldn’t be hired, I asked if they had any jobs openings. Turns out I was talking to the editor, publisher and owner of the paper.

“What do you do?” he asked.

Now, I was in trouble. This was much further then I had expected to get when I pushed on that red door. Fear and excitement churned in my stomach like a few dozen goldfish doing laps as I blurted out, “I write.”

He smiled. I wondered, how many people who thought of themselves as writers had stumbled into that office just like me? Backing toward the door, I was ready to say thanks and make my escape.

To my surprise, instead of telling me not to let the door hit me in the butt on my way out, he asked me how I was with computers and if I knew anything about pagination.

After fourteen years of figuring out everything I needed to know about computers by reading help menus, calling tech support and bugging friends, I know just enough about computers to impress folks who don’t know anything and to make savvy folks laugh at me. Pagination, hmmm, well, I knew how to put page numbers on Word documents, wasn’t that pagination? I told him what I knew and he asked me to drop off a resume.

Luckily, since becoming unemployed, I’d spent some time updating my resume, including highlighting my writing and writing related skills, despite my meager experience in the field.

Dressed in nicer clothes, instead of the jeans and t-shirt of my earlier visit, I returned with my resume. An eighty-pound Newfoundland puppy greeted me with great glee at the door. The editor asked me to have a seat and took a quick look at my resume. As I waited, a moist tickle warmed my toes; I glanced down to see the humongous black puppy, Balthazar, licking my sandaled feet. Smile pasted on my face, I did my best to ignore the giant amorous canine.

When the editor asked me about pagination again, I started to worry. Was there something special about the word pagination in the newspaper world that I didn’t know? Meantime Balthazar made his way up to my ankles. Surreptitiously shifting my legs to the other side of the chair and out of licking range, I said I had worked on a few catalogs and newsletters, plus my novel, and I was good at figuring out how to do things I’d never done before.

The editor said to check back with him. So I did. Week after week I would drop in and say hello. “Nothing yet,” was always the answer, but he was always friendly and never discouraged me from coming by.

After a couple of months, I strolled into the little gray house only to come face to face with the managing editor. She did not look thrilled to see me and asked me what I wanted. I told her.

She looked down her nose and said, “We don’t need any writers.”

Crushed, I prepared to walk out the red door and never look back. Just at that point Balthazar bounded into the room followed by the editor, who grinned when he saw me and asked, “Don’t we need someone to cover the school board meetings?”

The unfriendly managing editor had an immediate reversal of attitude and agreed. In a flash, I had a reporter’s notebook in my hands and an assignment to cover the school board meeting the following night. I was so elated, I never even asked how much they were paying me.

So the next night I was seated on a hard metal folding chair at the local school board meeting, frantically scratching notes and trying to look professional despite jangled nerves. Thus my newspaper career was born.

Tips for getting your first writing assignment with a newspaper or magazine:

First start with the four “Be’s”

1. Be brave and have confidence in yourself. If you don’t take that first step towards your goal it’s a guarantee that you will never reach it, so tell yourself you can do it and go for it! Do whatever you need to, to convince yourself to take that first step. In my case I believed that I had nothing to lose by trying.

2. Be prepared. Have your resume ready, have ideas for stories, hone up your writing skills and learn or sharpen any related skills such as photography, design and layout, note-taking, communications, advertising, computer knowledge, etc., that might make you a more attractive candidate for a job. (See tips below.) Also read the publication you are approaching so that you are familiar with its content and style. Make notes of what areas they already have covered or what hasn’t been covered; if they don’t have someone covering some aspect of the community then maybe you can. On the other hand be careful to note what kinds of coverage the editor leans toward. Don’t slam the local theater company if it’s clear that the newspaper always supports it.

3. Be professional and friendly. Make sure you are on time for appointments, return phone calls promptly and if someone says “no” don’t get angry but don’t give up either. (See next tip.)

4. Be persistent and don’t give up too easily. If the editor isn’t interested right away, he or she still might have something come up later on and if you’ve stayed in touch and been pleasant, there’s a good chance he or she will remember and call you or maybe you will be standing in front of him or her right when they need someone for an assignment.

Ideas and Actions for being as prepared as possible:

1. When preparing your resume, include anything you have ever done that has any relationship to writing, communications, advertising, or publishing. A few examples that I used in my resume included: minor publication credits, self-editing, writing copy and doing simple desktop publishing for my own business newsletter, helping local organizations prepare letters and other written materials, critiquing at WVU, and attending writing classes, workshops, and conferences. I also listed my knowledge of particular pieces of software and my assorted administrative and office skills. If you are good with computers, desktop publishing, bookkeeping, or web design make sure you put it on your resume. You never know what kinds of needs a small publication may have. You might get your foot in the door because they need help with ad sales or computer networking or staffing the front desk. Once you have the connection you’ll have a better chance of landing some assignments. If you don’t know how to write a resume, get a how-to book from the library and use one of the formats in it to get started.

2. Use your experience to your advantage. What most likely got me my first assignment was really the fact that the editor was looking for someone who could help digitize their antiquated layout process. Plus the fact that I had an almost obsolete degree in film photography clinched the deal. Don’t worry about degrees in journalism or creative writing, just emphasize what you know and what you can do. Many small publications are looking for columnists with experience in something of interest to their community, for example, our newspaper runs columns by the county health nurse, the cooperative extension agent and a local high school senior. We also have an art columnist who attends and writes about every cultural event in town from the high school drama club plays to a visiting string quartet to the local dance studio’s recitals. I know plenty of reporters who don’t have journalism degrees.

3. Consider starting small. Local and regional publications are often in need of content, so familiarize yourself with the kinds of stories they run and then write a couple of sample pieces or query the editor. Many years ago I simply wrote to an editor of a local magazine asking for their submission guidelines and she called me to ask what I had in mind. I told her a few of my ideas. She chose one and the next thing I knew I had my first publication credit. One thing to keep in mind is that these publications usually want localized stories that will appeal to their specific market. So be wary of asking a small-town editor if she’d be interested in a piece on the Tsunami relief effort, unless there’s a local community member who’s part of the effort and could be the focal point of the story.

4. Don’t tell them if you haven’t been published unless they flat out ask you. Just emphasize your skills and experience. I wasn’t asked for any clips or evidence that I could write when I was given my first assignment.

5. Don’t expect to get paid much to start with. The first story I ever sold was about 2000 words, took me weeks to research and write and I was paid $25. The real compensation was the confidence it gave me that I could see my words in print and it gave me my first publication clip.

6. Consider learning to use a digital camera. Small newspapers and magazines often don’t have staff photographers, although ours does, so if you can supply good quality photos along with your story that may just help sell your work.

7. Don’t turn any opportunities down; you never know what else it might lead to. Taking on the coverage of the school board led to a full-time newspaper job for me. My editor has helped me get photos published in three other much larger daily newspapers, when they contacted him to obtain images for stories they had planned about our area. This is a common practice in the industry. Also the more experience you have the more your confidence and credibility will grow.

So take that first step and the next thing you know you’ll be seeing your writing in black and white in the local newspaper.


About the Author
Shanna Lewis is a staff writer and photographer for the Wet Mountain Tribune in Westcliffe, Colorado and has had freelance work published in The Denver Post, The National Post (Canada), The Daily Record, and Catalyst, as well as radio stories featured on Western Skies, a radio newsmagazine broadcast from KRCC in Colorado Springs. Her short fiction has won several awards and has appeared in on-line publications including KidVisions, Whim’s Place, I Write for You, and The Peacock Chronicle. She and her husband live in a solar-powered straw bale home, which they built themselves. Like most writers she has a novel to finish and another to begin.


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Craft of Writing

Lon Prater

Spook-proofing your Query Letter

The top-drawer editor you want doesn't have time for sloppy, unprofessional writers. Neither does your dream agent.

Through long experience, these elusive creatures have become attuned to the little signs that presage a waste of their time. This heightened sensitivity makes them more difficult to pin down than Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster combined. After having their intuition validated time and again, the most successful of the species aren't going to stick around to read your manuscript if something in your query letter spooks them off.

What can you do to make sure your one-page masterpiece won't induce a flight response? Compare it to the list below and discard any of the offending stimuli you find there.

HOW TO SCARE OFF EDITORS AND AGENTS EVERY TIME

Any mention of your family (and other social acquaintances) - Unless you're writing the next Cheaper by the Dozen and have the progeny to back it up, there aren’t very many ways your family can be pertinent to what an agent or editor cares about: the salability of your book. It doesn’t matter if Aunt Trudy the veterinarian thought you described a horse's internal organs lyrically. It doesn’t matter if your kid brother says it's better than Harry Potter. Honestly—the person reading your letter only wants to know if your story sounds enticing enough to pursue. And she'll base that on her own experience and judgment, not the local Girl Scout troop's, thank you very much.

Cutesy stationery - Say it with me: An unobtrusive, graphic-free letterhead centered at the top of a single sheet of white, 20 pound (or better) 8.5" by 11" paper. No perfume, advance headshots for the bookjacket or gifts of chocolate necessary. Add nothing to your query beyond whatever combination of synopsis and chapters the guidelines allow.

Writing in review-speak - If you see the words sensational...gut-wrenching...thrill ride...climactic, or any similar blockbuster nonsense, yank them out immediately. Save the reviews for—well, the reviewers. Let the story sell itself in your query.

"Dear Whoever Reads This," - How much of your own time and money do you spend pursuing the great offers addressed to RESIDENT that show up in your mailbox? (And don’t get me started on spam!) Taking the time to research the name of a particular agent shows that you pay attention to the details and that you aren't just shotgunning the entire AAR and publishing industry with form mail. Ever hear of Garbage In, Garbage Out? Same is true of form letters, if you get my drift.

Bad grammar, spelling errors and typos - This one should be a no-brainer. Imagine your query letter is under a high-powered microscope. One little error will appear to be the size of a Volkswagen. Two errors will look like a pair of Hummers. Go beyond that and you're more likely to open a car lot than you are to get the busy editor or agent to keep reading. Before they see your query, put it under the microscope yourself, several times. Have someone you trust look it over as well. You only get one chance to make that first impression.

The letter that just wouldn’t end - Keep your query under a page in length. Devote one short paragraph to the genre and length of your story; one or two to identifying the overarching plot and theme, the protagonist and his internal/external conflicts; another paragraph to your writing credits, or anything that makes you uniquely qualified to tell this story; thank your prey for their time and sign the darn thing. Any more than this and you start making your quarry skittish. Need I remind you? Skittish is bad.


About the Author
Lon Prater lives, works and writes just two minutes from the Gulf of Mexico. His fiction has been Honorably mentioned in Year's Best Fantasy & Horror and placed as a Published Finalist in the Writers of the Future contest.  He is currently shopping his first novel and writing his second.


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Craft of Writing

Leanne M. Johnston

Target Audience
(for writers seeking publication)

As I scanned through my online writing group posts today, I noticed this statement from one of the members:

“I’ve finished my book. I don’t really want to spend time on marketing this thing, but I guess I’ll have to.”

I thought, Yep, you got it in one, sis!

As much as I sympathize with my fellow writers seeking publication and their desire to write in the genres they choose, the bell will toll as the examiner states:

“Pens down!”

The exams are over and students begin interviews in earnest to find their first job.

It is the same for a writer seeking the all-elusive publishing contract.

We must sell our work and ourselves.

What do I hear you say? You don’t like selling?

Not everyone is selling motivated or a people person. This is where marketing is crucial and specifically defining and targeting to your market audience. This article will assist you in building on your confidence and help you to sell your written word.

First, you must determine who composes your audience. Who would appreciate your manuscript? Knowing your audience through the Internet is as vital as knowing them offline. Prospective customers surround you. Every day people buy products and services. These people are your potential customers.

You must find your audience. Where do they live? How do you reach and convince them they need your product? Yes, your manuscript is reduced to that horrible word: “product.”

If you want to make “serious money,” it would be smarter to write your manuscript geared toward reaching a particular deficiency in the market. Define your target audience before starting to write and remain focused on the market you choose. This is ultimately the best marketing decision.

However, good fiction writers tend to be highly emotional, artistic and creative people. Unfortunately, this artistic disposition and yearning for freedom interferes with their expressive side when forced to write within constraints of focusing on a particular market segment. A pre-planned target market or audience may imprison the artistic writer and destroy their creativity. If this is you, write for yourself. Write what you like to read, and find a market later. If you decide to approach your writing in this way (most times it is not a conscious choice), you could have questions when you finish your manuscript, for example:

Where is my target audience? What is my product? How do I describe it? Is it educational or entertaining? Should you class it as comedy, horror, romantic, or young adult?

If you have a novel and describe it as fantasy suitable for people between 12 and 125 years of age, you may unknowingly cut potential customers. Do not attempt to be all things to all people. This is impossible and unrealistic. The idea is to increase sales by identifying and targeting smaller yet more profitable consumer groups within the total market. Aim your novel at too wide an audience and you may lose credibility, scaring potential buyers because they become confused about what you are offering.

Do not get marketing confused with selling your product or yourself. Marketing is more than who buys your products. It is a carefully researched integrated marketing solution. Study your chosen genre or field. Browse several bookstores to evaluate the different titles and your competition. What are they offering? Size, color, shape, large print, branding, promotional toys, post sale offers, links to websites, cash back, or competitive pricing? Conduct simple web searches for titles in your category and study what they offer for the price. How is your product different or better? How can you demonstrate the superior quality of your product as opposed to another already on the market?

Talented, analytical writers who can focus on a defined framework should plan their target audience ahead of publication and work out the size of the potential market. How profitable is it? Who makes up the target audience? Is it a viable segment or proposition to pursue?

Sometimes you start with an idea in mind of what you would like to write and by the time you complete it, you realize it took on a whole life of its own and turned out different to what you originally intended. This is where a plan or focus for your work can keep you on track. Be careful though. If you are one of the creative, artistic types, forcing yourself to work in a set framework may cause you to end up with a bad case of MMS (mute muse syndrome) or even worse, writer’s block.

The intensity of your desire to publish determines how much time you allocate on researching markets. If you are content to write for your own edification and perhaps that of your family, like the recently resurrected Chap Books of old, this can bring great joy. If you are wishing to find who is interested or would appreciate your writing from the thousands of people and potential markets in the world, you should classify your writing as in the example article dealing with finding your target audience below.

Imagine you have written a humorous article with a serious underlying message. The subject of the article, safety, could be a useful tool for training people on the dangers visitors face while holidaying in national parks. The humorous tone captures reader’s attention. It is a great method to relax the reader, reduce fear and aid concentration, but agents or publishers have to be convinced, or “sold” on the concept. The writer has to work harder if they choose to do something unique or unorthodox.

Once you have finished your article, your job as a writer ceases and the task of thinking like a marketer begins. By the time you have written your article and read it backwards for corrections, you will be extremely familiar with what it says. Do you really understand what it is from a marketing perspective?

The importance of defining your “product,” in this case, a funny article with a pertinent lesson, is crucial to reaching the end user of your product. Essentially, you must work out:

Who is your target audience?

This involves a series of questions, many questions, ultimately, to narrow your potential market to find people with a “need” or “want” for your article.

If you have difficulty determining your articles salability, start with these questions:

1. What age group would read this article?
2. Who or where is its market?
3. Why would they read it?
4. Where are they likely to look for this article?
5. How much time will they have to read this article?
6. Will they care about it?
7. Will it pique their interest?
8. Is there a need it fills?
9. Who will benefit from reading this article?
10. "Who" are you competing with to sell this article?
11. Is this article geared towards business, entertainment, or leisure?

There are many more questions and this list is not exhaustive. Think of a few questions yourself, or seek further help through your local library or the Internet.

Keep asking yourself questions like the above until you know your potential customer intimately. What would your buyer eat, think, act, do and, more importantly, what book would they buy? When you know the answers, you will be in a more confident position to connect with your target audience.

Remember you are marketing to people, not writers and readers. You need to find people who buy books. Not all readers buy books. If you were a cheapskate, like me, you would rely on your local library, secondhand bookshops or friends. Target the person who purchases the books.

Once you finish researching your target audience and know who they are, you are ready to ask:

How do I reach them?

How do you sell your book to the market you believe exists?

This is a whole other topic. Perhaps we could cover this in another article.


About the Author
Imagine 60’s Australia: A cool, early, autumn morning Leanne’s Mum gives birth to a female. This child continues to wake early every morning, talk the leg off an iron pot*, entertain herself with her vivid imagination and detest late nights because they interfere with her precious dreamtime.

Nowadays Leanne lives and works a Stud Murray Grey cattle farm. She considers the Murray Grey breed exceptional and one that will become the most popular breed in the world due to their wonderful temperament and marbling. She shows absolutely no bias of course.

The other side of Leanne’s personality loves to tell tales and until a few years ago, she worked in office management. One wild Wednesday she quit her job to pursue a career as a writer. She believes everyone is here for a reason. Everyone has something unique or great about them and others should encourage them to develop their special skills. Leanne likes to use her ability as a writer to help others become all they can, realizing there is heaps of good in the world if you seek it in people.

Life is like a large brainteaser to Leanne and she believes in things unseen, unheard of, and sometimes only felt.

If you wish to contact Leanne, you may, at: huonmurraygreys@bigpond.com

*Common Aussie slang


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Birdie's Quill

Birdie

Writing Effective Dialog

“What do you mean?”

This bit of dialog provides a perfect example for this month’s column. When we speak, those listening to us hear our tone and take in other information that helps them understand what we say. The above dialog as it stands alone doesn’t give us much to go on. As writers we strive to show. When writing dialog we must train ourselves not to slip back into a “telling” mindset. It’s easy to cross the line and tack on descriptive modifiers that explain the meaning or tone.

When we speak, our tone conveys emotion. As writers, our job is to let our readers feel the emotion without telling language. The trick is to create dialog that doesn’t rely on explanatory speaker attributions in speech tags. In an effort to avoid over using the word “said,” writers fall prey to using modifiers that tell the reader what to think. Using speaker attributions to explain dialog is considered amateurish. How do we avoid describing emotion the dialog should carry? In essence, how do we let the reader feel it?

Avoid Descriptive Modifiers

Create dialog that doesn’t rely on descriptive modifiers. Using these speaker attributions for the most part is a no-no and in the eyes of most editors marks the writer as inexperienced. Avoid describing emotion the dialog should carry. Instead, let the reader feel it.

Example:

Describing emotion: “What do you mean?” she hissed.

Verbs other than “said” tend to draw attention away from the dialog. Don’t break up the flow of your story by telling the reader what to think. Show them what’s going on. Pull them into the natural flow of the scene. Don’t leave them staring at the word “hissed.” Dialog should speak for itself. Using descriptive modifiers actually incorporates a form of redundancy. If you’ve already shown the emotion, the modifier offers redundant information and tells the reader what they already know. Redundancy breaks the liquidity of the passage and distracts the reader.

While avoiding descriptive modifiers, be cautious not to package explanations in your dialog. Readers spot the unnatural bits of conversation. They work as flags and distract readers to wander the path of possible plot twists wondering why the author added the information.

Here are a few tools to help you write in a way that allows your reader to see and feel the intended tone without telling them what to think.

Body Language

One way to avoid descriptive modifiers is to show action associated with the dialog.

Example:

Barbara twisted the wet tissue. “What do you mean?” A solitary tear trickled down her flushed cheek.

Or

Barbara clenched her jaw. “What do you mean?”

Actions infuse emotion into the dialog. No speech tag is necessary as long as you make it clear who is speaking. Actions convey the necessary information. Known as a beat, these actions limit redundant tags.

Interior Monologue

Most people complain that movies generally don’t measure up to books of the same title. Even if script writers didn’t change the story, it wouldn’t be as good. Why? Because books let us into character’s heads and engage us on a more personal level. We know the character’s thoughts.

This interior monologue is another useful tool to convey emotion. Thoughts allow the reader to climb into the POV character's skin. Personal thoughts open the window to not only see the scene through the character’s eyes but connect readers on an emotional level with a clear understanding of the character’s perception of available details.

Interior monologue is usually written in first person in italics. Never use quotes with interior monologue. By today’s standards, quotation marks to indicate thoughts is incorrect grammar. Thoughts are internal and not spoken.

Example: Barbara clenched her jaw. “What do you mean?” If he doesn’t come clean with me, I’m leaving him for good.

The beat shows Barbara is the speaker. Her clenched jaw shows she’s distraught. Her interior monologue let’s us feel that she’s at the end of her rope emotionally. As with any tool, don’t overuse interior monologue. Editors view it as a sign of weak writing, and large amounts of italics is not easy to read. You don’t want readers skimming over important information because the font is difficult.

Three or More Characters

Incorporating three or more characters in a scene necessitates the use of speech tags. However, if we are not using descriptive modifiers, the “he said/she said” will become monotonous. In William Noble’s book, “Shut Up!,” He Explained, he offers these helpful tips:

"He/she said" is the basic modifier, and it should be used three quarters of the time any modifier is used.

A page of dialog should not go by without a couple of "he/she saids."

When in doubt, leave the "said" out—add nothing.

In dialog between two people, use "he/she said" with only one of the characters—nothing with the other.
Dialog for two characters is easy, three or more and you’ll have to use “said.” Using synonyms for the word “said” is not the answer. Words like “replied” are labeled distracting.

Example:

Barbara clenched her jaw. “What do you mean?” If he doesn’t come clean with me I’m leaving him for good.

Bob stared at the floor and shook his head.

“Answer me!”

“I don’t have an excuse.”

“Mommy,” their three-year-old pushed through the bedroom door crying, “what’s wrong?”

“It’s okay, honey,” Barbara said. “Mommy and Daddy are just talking.”

“I don’t like it when you shout.”

“Come on, Shirley, Daddy will tuck you in.” Bob lifted the girl and cradled her in his arms. “You’re Daddy’s little girl and always will be.” He kissed his daughter on the forehead and smirked.

Dialog for each character starts a new line. This format is another tool to help the reader gain a clear understanding of who says what. Once you’ve completed the scene, I suggest you read the dialog out loud to help point out what sounds natural and what doesn’t.

Dialect

Unusual spellings make reading dialog labor intensive. Readers stumble through strange spellings like working through a word search puzzle. You don’t want people re-reading while trying to fit puzzle pieces together. You want them immersed in the story, intertwined in the lives of your characters.

In the book, Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, authors Renni Browne and Dave King say it best. “Explanations, -ly adverbs, oddball verbs of speech, trick spellings–these can’t really help your dialogue because they don’t really change the dialogue. They take the place of good dialogue rather than help create it.”

Convey the flavor of dialect by making appropriate word and grammar choices.

Example:

Correct: “I’m telling you right now, there ain’t no way you’re going hunting this here weekend. Mama and Daddy’s fixing to come for Sunday supper.”

Incorrect: “Ah’m tellin’ y’ right now, there ain’t no way yur goin’ huntin’ this here weekend. Mamma and Daddy’s fixin’ ta come fer Sunday supper.”

Punctuation

In my work as an editor, one of the most common areas for punctuation errors is found in and around dialog. Here are some basic guidelines to help those who falter wondering if the comma should go inside or outside the quotes along with other foundational information.
  • Punctuation goes inside the quotation marks.

    The use of punctuation within quotation marks tends to be, but does not need to be, confusing. Differences between British and American practice may be the source of most errors among American writers. In America, periods and commas go inside quotation marks. Colons and semi-colons go outside the closing quotation marks.

    Correct: “What do you mean?” Barbara asked.
    Incorrect: “What do you mean”? Barbara asked.


  • If a quotation is interrupted and continues in the same sentence, don’t capitalize the second part of the quote.

    Correct: “Mommy,” their three-year-old pushed through the bedroom door crying, “what’s wrong?”
    Incorrect: “Mommy,” their three-year-old pushed through the bedroom door crying, “What’s wrong?”


  • Only one punctuation mark at the end of the quote.

    Incorrect: “What do you mean?”, Barbara asked.
    Incorrect: “What do you mean!!”


  • Dashes vs. Ellipsis

    Many writers think any incomplete sentence must have either a dash or an ellipsis. Punctuation should be used to make pacing clear, not to cloud it. While I’m at it, let me point out that a hyphen is not a dash. Two hyphens side-by-side equal a dash.

    Dashes show an interruption; it cuts off information flow. The reader may think they know what else would have been said, but they won’t know for sure unless it is revealed later in the story.

    Example:

    “Answer me!”

    “I don’t have an excuse--”

    “Mommy,” their three-year-old pushed through the bedroom door crying, “what’s wrong?”

    An ellipsis in fiction indicates a trailing off or a gap in dialog such as one side of a phone conversation. This gap lets the reader know more information exists. It leaves them hungry to know more. (When writing non-fiction, placing an ellipsis in the middle of a quotation indicates the omission of material.)

    An ellipsis is composed of three periods with spaces or brackets before and after the ellipsis. If the ellipsis is used to indicate the omission of material at the end of a sentence, use four points. Three of these compose the ellipsis and the fourth is the period. The ellipsis should follow a blank space. Do not place a space before the period if the ellipsis ends the sentence. Never allow a point in an ellipsis to drift to the next line of text.

    Example:

    “Answer me!”

    “I don’t have an excuse. I–I .... ” He combed his fingers through his wavy locks and grabbed a fist full of hair.

    “Mommy,” their three-year-old pushed through the bedroom door crying, “what’s wrong?”
Odds and Ends
  • Single Quotes: Use single quotation marks to indicate a quote inside of a quote.


  • Place a character’s name or pronoun first when writing a speech tag.

    Correct: “It’s okay, honey,” Barbara said. “Mommy and Daddy are just talking.”
    Incorrect: “It’s okay, honey,” said Barbara. “Mommy and Daddy are just talking.”


  • Don’t open a paragraph with a speech tag.

    Correct: “It’s okay, honey,” Barbara said.
    Incorrect: Barbara said, “It’s okay, honey.”


  • Decide how you are going to refer to a character and stick to it for the length of the scene. You don’t want to refer to Barbara as Mrs. Lawson and Barbara within the same scene. Switching back and forth confuses the reader.
Test Your Dialog

As I said earlier, read your dialog out loud. Ask yourself the following questions:

Does the scene move along at a natural pace?
Is it easy to tell who is speaking?
Does the dialog convey what’s going on?

When you finish writing your scene, let the piece rest and pick it up again in a few days and read it one more time. Let other writers have a look at it. Use their feedback to fine tune it.

Dialog when written effectively is an important writer’s tool. It moves the story along and provides intimate information. Avoid telling your readers what to think, but don’t leave them scratching their heads asking, “What do you mean?”


About the Author
Author and freelance writer, Donna Sundblad, resides in Florida with her husband, Rick. Check ePress-online for details about her recently released book, Pumping Your Muse. As an owner/editor of Team Spirit Critique and Editing, LLC, Donna helps other writers follow their dreams. Visit her website at www.theinkslinger.net for more information.


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

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Humor: Torment Behind the Art

Edward L. Flaim

Beware of Whom You Chide!

Oh geez, yet another 15th of the month arrives, The Writers’ Ezine expects another humor article, and I’m scheduled for an EEG at 8:00 a.m. today to determine whether the shroud that descended upon me during my auto accident has left me alive or dead. I suppose it could be worse. They could expect me to write something funny. Thus far they have not required that, bless their wooden little hearts!

This column shall be brief. If I’m not declared brain dead after the EEG, I’ll be driving to my Pennsylvania estate tomorrow so that I may work on two of my novels in exquisite luxury. I shall write in the exclusive bucolic serenity of Oneida, a community consisting of only six tree-lined streets, regally named First, Second, Third and Fourth Streets, with the streets connecting these majestic roads known as North and South Streets.  And lest I forget, two roads lead into and out of Oneida. Residents named these two roads the Streets Leading Into and Out of Oneida. We residents have no limit to our creativity.

On really wild Saturday nights, we hop the Catholic Church bus to St. Anthony’s in Hazelton, a distant nine miles way, for a fierce night of bingo. I recall sharing a winning card with my grandfather, in Slovak Zedo, when I reached adulthood at 10 and walked away smiling with fifty bucks in my pocket. The Wild Days, when Vegas had nothing over us!

Oneida used to be a “Company Town,” all homes owned by the mine owners and rented to the owners’ miners, who risked their lives daily to support their families, all immigrants, consisting primarily of Slavs and Tyroleans. Eventually the mine owners relinquished their ownership and these immigrants became proud homeowners and reveled in their impoverished success while surrounding communities scoffed. And even these men of  property laughed at their relative success, for they knew their “prosperity” was due to the land barons realization that their serf’s survival was largely dependent upon their ability to hunt game. If conditions had remained stagnant, the nature of their game might well have changed.

Odd. This tale began somewhat humorous and I’m certain some of us smiled, snickered, perhaps even laughed as we did at Mayberry and Hooterville. But when does mirth become inappropriate?

People may laugh, joke, about their own conditions. Even the word “nigger” has become acceptable on television when the conversants are black. Let a white man utter that word and look for his genitals across town.

Do I have a point? Yes. Humor amongst those of the same ethnic or socio-economic conditions, directed at their quirks, foibles, oddities, speech and other unique traits may be acceptable when participated in by the particular groups possessing these traits. But without permission to do so, avoid this type of humor. Black comedians and their audiences freely use the previously forbidden word, “nigger.” But if not black, best not if you wish your body to remain intact. The same is true of all ethnic groups and lifestyles. Anyone who has not walked in my shoes had best not joke about the absurdity of my life, my tiny town, its quaint and unique characters, unless he wishes to wear these shoes in his butt.

One final warning. The residents of Mayberry, Hooterville and yes, even Oneida, are viewing you with skeptical eyes and subtle amusement, much as you view them. An oft told story entails a young New Yorker driving through Derry, Maine, when he screeches to a halt. He stares at what he considers a quaint, picturesque, and not too bright old man dressed in pajamas, rocking slowly in his dilapidated rocker on his decaying porch. After several moments, he asks, “How do I get to Bangor from here?”

The old man gazed at the sky, seemingly immersed in thought, before finally responding, his eyes glimmering, “Sonny? You can’t get there from here.”

He who laughs last…


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

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

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


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Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz

Our theme for July is what you ask for and what you get, and the Drabble best expressing it is entitled Heat Wave, by Mary McIntosh.

HEAT WAVE

The old man wiped the dripping sweat off his face. "I'll walk down to the store. It may be cooler there. Will you join me later?" he asked to his wife.

The old man owned a sweet shop near my home. As he neared the store, he saw several young boys standing around. Often they taunted him. He wished his wife would stay home, but she liked to help. She came. He heard a scuffling noise. Two boys pushed ahead of her. He saw the gun and screamed. It was too late.

The heat wave would bother him no longer.

What have you been doing this past month—living on coffee and yogurt while writing 15-page papers, or grading them (or both)? Chasing after a gaggle of children (one child can be a gaggle, in my experience), all trying to run off in different directions at the playground? Me, I've started singing lessons. I'm telling anyone who'll listen, but I'd better be careful, because I might give in to an urge to sing other than alone in my car, and I'm pretty sure that others are not ready to hear it. I've got a love/hate relationship with singing—at those few times in my past that I've been able to do it, it felt freeing like nothing else—kind of like flying with my feet safely planted on the ground, if that makes sense. Without encouragement from my boyfriend a few weeks ago, I wouldn't have asked for the phone number of a singing teacher. And I'd have missed out on flying.

For June, the theme presented was asking for what you want, and for July, the theme is asking what it is that you want to do—not what you want to have, or what you want to be, but what you could do that would make you happy (is that a dirty word?), even just thinking about it. So think about it, and whisper it, or shout it out, in a Drabble. 100 words exactly, excluding title, and due on July 10 for the August issue. In your submission, please put the word Drabble somewhere in the subject line. Here are the Guidelines, and here is where to submit: drabble@wvu.org. See you next time.


About the Author
Hello, and welcome to Drabbles. I'm Michelle, your Drabbles editor. I live south 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!

René Walden, nee Wilson, won Silk’s Vault 1001 Steam Stunner’s Contest with her erotica novella, Forbidden Dreams, being published by Silk’s Vault Publishing to be released in this summer of 2005. Several of René's short stories have been published at Literotica.

Forbidden Dreams is about erotica author, Elainie Thompson. While writing her newest book, Elainie becomes withdrawn and distant, refusing to share any details of the story with her lover, Michael Benton. After three years of sharing everything, Michael is hurt and angry at her refusal to include him and accuses her of pushing him away. The heated discussion quickly transforms into a full-blown shouting match, ending when Michael storms out of the house.

Fearing he may lose her, Michael returns home to set things right, but finds an empty house. In his search of her office, he stumbles across Elainie's story by accident. As he reads, he’s bewitched by the tale of forbidden desires. The words of the story haunt him, filling his mind with erotic images of bondage and an insatiable yearning for complete surrender. Confused by conflicting emotions of guilt and arousal, Michael makes a decision that will forever change their lives.

René was overjoyed to discover that she won the contest. "Well, I kept saying, oh wow, oh wow, oh wow, hollered a few times, giggled like a wild woman, then jumped up and did my snoopy dance! I couldn't believe it. I immediately woke my fiancé and told him, then called my mom.

"I've always loved to write, even as a young child. Most of my family didn’t consider writing to be a very profitable business venture, so I wasn't encouraged to pursue it. About 5 years ago I went back to college and took a few creative writing classes and I was hooked again. I decided writing was something I loved and missed, and I'd give it a shot whether I was ever published or not."

René does a lot of sketching, sometimes just places and scenery, but she often does erotic sketches. "I love sketching, reading, and crafting things. My sketching helps me to visualize my characters or particular settings for my stories. My reading almost always inspires me to be creative. It's like it sparks something inside me and makes me want to write."

She joined WVU in March of this year, planning to wait until after her June wedding to take classes, but when René found the Writing Erotica course, facilitated by Jim Kelly, scheduled to start in April, she had to take the plunge. "I've wanted to take that class ever since I heard about it one night in a F2K chat. I've taken probably the past four sessions of F2K. It really helped to jumpstart what I consider my more formal training as far as my writing is concerned. I'm a member of the Finish Line Study Group. They're a really great group of people, always encouraging me and helping me to stay focused on my writing.

"I think the biggest benefit I've received from WVU is all the encouragement and positive words from other members. The feedback and support is fantastic. I've learned so much and am still continuing to learn and grow with WVU.

"I got married on Saturday, June 11, 2005 to a wonderfully supportive man who encourages and urges me not to give up on those days when I really wonder what I'm doing trying to write. I also have a 19-year-old daughter who's always supported my dream of being a writer. We live in a small town in southeast Missouri. As far as my professional life goes, I have many other stories in the works that I hope to have published. I'm staying positive and reaching for the stars." To learn more about René visit her website at http://www.renewalden.com.

Brandy Foster is the author of more than ten published articles in the last three months. "At the beginning of June I was offered a managing editor position with a local newspaper in Austin, Texas. I gladly accepted. The Austin Student is a weekly independent newspaper that (primarily) reaches out to all college students in Austin and the surrounding cities. The newspaper has done very well and is giving other university newspapers (like UT of Austin) a run for their money. I have been in this position for three weeks and it has been both demanding and rewarding.

"I was in shock. I prayed a prayer of thanksgiving to God and then called every person close to me and told them the good news. The day my first issue, June 9, 2005, as managing editor came out, I grabbed about 20 copies and put them in my car. I gave a copy of the paper to close family and friends."

Brandy joined WVU in last July of last year. WVU was the first place she went after deciding to follow her dream of being a writer. "WVU has helped me tremendously because it allows me to network with other writers. The classes are wonderful because they demand you discipline yourself to complete assignments each week. I have created some pretty good pieces from WVU classes. It has also helped me to pick a more specific career than just 'writing'. Through WVU I realized how much I love editing—and how good I am at it. I have a good eye for detail, organization, and grammar. I am now pursuing a career in the editing field while writing in my spare time." Brandy is also an editor for ePress-online. She has assisted in editing Pumping Your Muse and Death at Dragonthroat.

Her advice to new writers: Following a dream requires confidence, discipline, persistence, and hard work. Be confident in yourself and know that you are a talented human being who has something unique to offer to the world. Believe that you can make a career out of what you love to do. Discipline yourself to do what is necessary to get you on the path to your dream.

Congratulations, René and Brandy. 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 Personnel Coordinator/Editor for ePress-online. Joan has had two short stories published and is currently working on a non-fiction book and a fantasy novel.


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Fiction Short Story

by Stephen Porter

Finding Your Feet

"I can teach you to walk." Adrian's hands gripped the wheelchair and his jaw tightened as he heard those words.

I've known Adrian for a long time. I helped him come to terms with the accident and often listened to the bitter tone his voice carried when he talked about his loss. Sure, Adrian wanted to walk again, but five years passed and he learned to cope with his disability. Of course some days proved difficult to handle, especially when he experienced what he called 'beautiful dreams' during the night; dreams of walking, running or dancing. Dreams so vivid that it took time to adjust to reality in the morning. Being paralyzed from the waist down forced him to accept certain grim facts.

If a doctor offered a new operation that might lead to movement of his legs, Adrian would have signed up for the first procedure. But when an arrogant young man entered our church and said he could teach him to walk, Adrian wanted to punch his lights out. He didn't empathise with this pushy upstart, dressed in a designer black suit (label displayed), gold cuff-links and shocking red tie set against his brilliant white shirt.

After he whispered these almighty words to my mate, the healer smiled and winked at him, and joined the congregation. The believers jumped up and down and cheered like a bunch of kids at a pop concert. Adrian sat and remained silent. Normally he participates in a lot of the discussions, but this day even his mind appeared paralyzed. He gripped the sides of his wheelchair, clenched his teeth and stayed still.

The zealot gave his speech and people became hypnotized by the words. He promised the same salvation as other preachers touted. He explained how he had seen the promised land and how close we all were to unlocking heaven's gate. I hated the guy. However, he captured my attention and I felt enchanted by the way he spoke. I guess it was a combination of his energy, enthusiasm and the weight of his conviction.

He was charming and handsome. You name it and he had it going for him. I guess it's easy to praise the Lord when you got all the attributes this guy had; he was tall and athletic with golden skin and dark, shoulder-length hair. His striking blue eyes reached out to each and every one of us, and we found ourselves captivated by a smile that flashed like a photographer's camera. I am ashamed to say that I felt threatened by him; he made me feel that my own faith and beliefs were weak and false.

Take Marie, she always had time for me, but when this guy entered the room, she completely blanked me as if I didn't exist. Even Old Miss Boyle acted like a love-struck teenager, and she's seventy two! OK, he wore a nice suit, a colourful tie, and aftershave that ignited the senses. He appeared clean-cut, stood tall, and his voice carried a confident tone. He represented all the things I am not. I understood his appeal.

I noticed Adrian stew in his chair. I watched his eyes follow the repulsive chap around the church. His gaze bore where his legs wouldn't take him. I could see that this guy made Adrian's skin crawl, which was unusual because Adrian rarely disliked anyone. If he hadn't said anything to Adrian about walking, we'd have thought he was an alright guy... well to a degree, I suppose.

The young man wandered toward us and stopped right in front of Adrian. He fondled one of the gold cuff links on his designer shirt. I looked at Adrian and his face grimaced as he stared at the young man. The man smiled, stood triumphant, and winked at my poor friend.

Adrian pounced like a boxer at the sound of the bell, and punched this guy square in the face. The audience remained motionless. The first blow split the young man's nose, the second winded the guy and another cracked his jaw. Adrian's feet danced like Ali in his prime. Another punch to the face followed by one to the gut. The healer didn't even try to defend himself, he just took the punishment. Another jab to the face, and another and another! Face! Gut! Face!

Fist against nose, eye and chin. The immaculate guy crucified, beaten to a pulp for smiling and raising the spirits of a congregation, by the most graceful boxing I'd ever witnessed. Adrian stomped out of the place and slammed the church door as he left.

Adrian 'walked' right out of there! I sat mesmerized. When the police arrived, we tried to tell the truth, but a load of lies spewed from our voices. Our fable cleared Adrian of any guilt. As for the healer, he vanished in an ambulance. I've been trying to find him ever since. I'd like to thank him for helping my mate find his feet.


About the Author
Originally from East London, Stephen Porter moved to Milton Keynes (50 miles north of the capital) in 1977 at age 9. He has tried his hand at a number of jobs: underwriting clerk, building inspector, waiter, luggage porter, customer care advisor and many others. He currently works part time on an IT helpdesk and looks after his two young children the rest of the week. He has been married to Deborah for 5 years.

In his twenties, he travelled around Europe, North Africa and the United States over a two-year period (he narrowly missed being caught in the 1989 San Francisco earthquake, leaving the city the day before). After travelling he returned to England to study and gained a degree in English.

"I often write if I feel a bit down and this was the case here, I was looking for a story that would lift myself more than anything. My wife's religious upbringing helped inspire the setting and I liked the idea that popular people are often hated as much as they are loved, and that hate could be channelled to a positive outcome. By the time I had finished writing this one I felt a lot better."


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Fiction Short Story

by Leland Burkhart

Run for the River

Radarman Second Class Dan Wilson shouted map coordinates into his radio as the American F-14s and Russian MIGs engaged in roaring combat above him. From his vantage point, he called in air strikes on enemy positions not three kilometers from where he set up his observation post.

As a seasoned veteran of these operations, Dan had been on more of these than he would like to remember. He planned well and was adept at moving across different terrain unnoticed. His job was simple. The swift boat ran him up the river and dropped him off. Armed with an M-16, .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol, walkie-talkie and a map bag that contained flairs, smoke canister, binoculars, compass and maps, he set up observation posts within safe proximity to a predetermined target. From there he became the eyes of the air strike. He called in coordinates to adjust as necessary. With his task complete he dashed for the river to rendezvous with the swift boat that would return and pick him up. If he ran longer than 15 minutes with no word they would not wait, leaving him on his own.

Dan watched a parachute float to the ground. He recognized it at once as an American chute. The problem was the chute and the dangling pilot had landed between him and the river. If he had seen the chute so had every Viet Cong guerilla within 5 kilometers. An American POW was a prize not to be missed by the VC.

Dan’s mind raced. If they got to the pilot before him he was cut off from the river. The pick up spot was predetermined and there was no changing it now. He had to get moving to save the pilot and, more importantly, himself.

He came down the hill at a dead run. His momentum was such that by the time he got to the bottom he sprinted as hard as he could to avoid stumbling. It was almost a half kilometer from his observation point to the river bottom below. As he ran down the hill he saw movement in the bush within a kilometer each from the left and right. The VC were moving in on the prize. Dan hoped that with the VC concentrating on the pilot, his own movement had gone unnoticed. At 23 years of age, he was 5 foot 11 inches, 175 pounds. In high school he had been a three-year letterman in track and now, in this oppressive heat, he ran like the athlete he was.

One hundred yards from the chute he saw the silken fabric billow in the tall grass ahead of him. The familiar popping sound of AK-47 fire on each side of him warned him to take cover. They had spotted him and were trying to cut him off from the pilot. At the edge of the tall grass he knelt down out of sight.

Dan knew he was in trouble. He was badly outnumbered. Time to make a call.

"Traut line, traut line, this is lunker, over."

The swift boat radioed back, "Lunker, this is traut line, we're just a couple minutes away, son, over."

"Traut line, this is lunker. I'm pinned down by Charlie. Got a downed pilot about 50 yards from me. Gonna need some covering fire, over."

"Roger, lunker. We brought company. Establish your marker and call the ball, over."

"Roger, traut line, out."

Dan reached into his map bag and pulled out a blue smoke canister and lit it off. The area around him filled with blue smoke. At the same time two HUE helicopters appeared over the trees on the river.

"Lunker, this is foxtrot alpha and bravo, where do you want it, boy, over?" one of the HUE's asked.

"Roger, foxtrot alpha. Lay down a field of fire 25 yards to the left and right of my position. I need a lane to the pilot and the river."

A deafening roar of automatic weapons fire thundered from the cannons mounted on the sides of the two helicopters. This was the break he needed. Dan came out of his crouch and ran toward the parachute. In less than half a minute he located the pilot. Badly wounded and unconscious, he was alive. Hoisting him in a fireman's lift, Dan balanced the pilot on his shoulders and started running the most dangerous 50 yards of his life. Bullets whistled past him. His ears rang from the explosions around him.

Something hit him in the back and knocked him forward off his feet and into the river. The weight of the pilot on his shoulders held him underwater as he struggled to the surface for air. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a hand seized each arm and pulled him out of the river and onto the deck of the swift boat.

Dan gasped for breath as he sat totally exhausted next to the wounded pilot. The boat turned and headed back down river at full speed. The crew on the boat explained that the two helos were shadowing them looking for the pilot. They knew approximately where he had gone down and just happened to be spoiling for a fight.

Lieutenant Paterson pointed to the walkie-talkie strung across Dan's back.

"The old man's gonna make you pay for that."

Dan shifted the strap so he could get a look at it. It had taken a round dead center and was just a hunk of metal and wires.

"Best money I ever spent," Dan replied.


About the Author
This is the author's first published work. Leland is an avid reader and decided to put his love of storytelling into print. For years, Leland has had a creative energy crying out for attention. Sales is his career. Writing has become his passion. At 50 years of age his dream is to write professionally and live in the mountains.

"I have learned, that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours." —Henry David Thoreau


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Fiction Short Story

by Susanne Shaphren

When Johnnie Comes Marching Home

I dump sugar-coated nutrition pellets into the Spiderman bowl, add banana wheels and enough milk to barely cover the cereal. Following orders just as precisely as the love of my life is doing half a world away.

"Tommy, last call for breakfast!"

A blur in red, white and blue appears out of nowhere and slumps in the chair. Red baseball hat pulled down tight over sandy hair. The flag T-shirt that I have to wash every single day because Tommy won't wear anything else. Jeans that have seen far more than their share of rough and tumble play. No words. No hug. No hint that another person might even be in the room.

I pour a mug of strong coffee, sit at the table as though invited, and go through the motions of making conversation.

After my father died and my stepmother had to go back to work, I took care of her toddlers, dreamed of the day when I'd have a house full of babies with my strong chin and ocean blue eyes. When I got old enough to know there were too many children already born that needed love, my dreams grew flexible enough to include children who didn't look like me but reached out with open arms.

Nothing at all like this icy stranger. Still, I can't imagine doing anything but trying my best to be a good parent to this child. Making sure Johnnie has one less thing to worry about.

I wasn't looking for love when I pulled into Kendall's Auto Repair six months ago. All I needed was somebody to coax my ancient pickup into lasting a couple thousand miles longer.

Johnnie Kendall turned out to be more of a magician than a mechanic. The engine purred just like a contented kitten, and I walked away with money left in my wallet.

That first dinner was a thank you for a job well done. My pickup found its way to the garage precisely at lunchtime a couple of times a week. Johnnie invited me for pizza and a video every Friday. Once in a while, we splurged on a babysitter and got dressed up for what passed for a night on the town.

Maybe if we'd been together a little longer before Johnnie's National Guard unit got called up, maybe if I'd actually spent the night in Johnnie's bed and come to the breakfast table set with three places . . . maybe this would all be easier. Who am I kidding? Easier would be if Johnnie's parents were still alive or if the Ex was anywhere to be found.

Work. Here, I know exactly what to expect, know exactly what's expected of me. I don't have to censor every word before it comes out of my mouth for fear the red, white and blue blur will escape behind a locked door.

Instead of lunch, I head for the thrift store. Hunting for treasures in the piles and on the racks. Stretching the dollars I've saved by brown bagging it. Almost magic. I manage to put together a whole patriotic wardrobe for Tommy who suddenly refuses to wear anything unless it's red, white, and blue. There's even enough left over for a stop at the 99 Cent Store on the way to the post office.

I add my bargains to Johnnie's care package . . . sunscreen, juice boxes, candy, a few silly surprises . . . I carefully tuck in my feeble attempt at the "right" words and Tommy's latest crayon masterpiece.

Back to the office in record time, but not quite quick enough.

The message on my desk says to call Tommy's preschool. "URGENT!" Why didn't anybody think to try my cellphone? A quick check confirms my worst fear. The battery is dead.

Dialing the office phone with one hand, I fumble to be sure I have the required paperwork with the other. Johnnie made it a point to introduce me to Tommy's teacher and the folks in the front office, but the faces seem to change faster than a traffic signal. There's supposed to be a copy of the forms in Tommy's file, but I've learned the hard way to carry a copy. Just in case.

I don't even want to think about the other papers tucked away in the safety deposit box. We spent one of our last afternoons together cooped up in an attorney's office to be sure Tommy could count on my taking care of her permanently if the unthinkable were to happen.

Hands steady on the wheel, but my stomach churns as I force myself to drive just under the speed limit.

The preschool nurse scans the paperwork carefully, examines me just as intently as she did the printing.

"This is probably just a virus. Push fluids. Call your pediatrician if the fever goes any higher."

Tommy looks like a ghost, must feel even worse. No hint of protest as I hug the limp body.

"Do you want me to carry you?" The words slip out before the internal censor can save me. Any minute now, that sweet little mouth will open and an ex-Marine's cussing will shock the preschool nurse.

"Yeah. If I'm not too heavy."

"Light as a feather."

I settle Tommy on the couch, throw a video into the VCR, and pour orange juice over crushed ice. Must be imagination. I could almost swear I hear a whispered thank you as I dump my thrift store treasures into the washer and start it chugging.

"How about scrambled eggs with melted cheese for dinner and rainbow sherbet for dessert?"

"OK. Can we check for E-Mail first?"

"Sure."

I boot up the computer, open the E-Mail file, say a little prayer.

There's a picture of Johnnie in fatigues working magic on a Hummer, smiling as though that was Disneyland in the background instead of Iraq.

Tommy touches the screen, tries ever so hard not to cry. Tough enough on a good day. Too tough when you're sick, and your Mommy is half a world away.

"It's OK, Princess. Everything will be OK." Just this once, I'm not going to worry about saying or doing the right thing.

Listening to my heart, I hug Thomasina Joanne Kendall really tight and blow a kiss to her mother's picture.

When Johnnie comes marching home, I'm going to make her my wife. Until then, I'm gonna do my very best to be a father to this stubborn little tomboy.


About the Author
Susanne Shaphren's articles and fiction have been published in a wide variety of print and online venues including: ABSOLUTEWRITE, ESPRESSO FICTION, and SPRING HILL REVIEW. DANA LITERARY SOCIETY ONLINE JOURNAL and MONTHLY SHORT STORIES scheduled her stories for July, 2005. Her short story, "Arrangements," is included in the Mystery Writers of America anthology, SHOW BUSINESS IS MURDER.


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Fiction Short Story

by Vash Brandy

Wings of Space

I met my first angel on the D410 run to the asteroid belt. My heart leapt from my chest when I saw her lean against the massive drill, her arms folded over her full breasts. She had a beauty that transcended her ordinary features: fine bones, thin lips, green eyes set a touch too close. Her gold and white feathered wings matched the highlights of her hair. The rest of her shone as naked as a sea of stars.

I switched my spacesuit com to the outside speaker. "Dirk Sandleson, over. So, uh, what's a knockout, naked woman with wings doing hanging around this old asteroid?" I glanced down at the oxygen readout on my left arm. Twenty minutes left to return to base. I kept cutting these runs closer and closer. A part of me wondered if I wanted to make it back at all.

With the lack of air in space, I shouldn't have heard her answer, but her voice came in clear as a chiming bell. "What are you here for, Dirk Sandleson?"

I was tempted to say something clever or meaningful, like I was searching for the remains of one of those 21st century tycoons whose ashes were scattered among the stars. But if she was an angel, I doubted she'd appreciate my lies. I said, "Talarium. Powers the ships, you know..."

She stared up at me with blank green eyes. I walked past the drill to the storage car behind it. I punched my seven-digit code into the first keypad. The door beside it popped open. I leaned inside, grabbed a small chunk of black rock and held it out to her. "Talarium."

Her brow furrowed. "The wishing stone?" Her golden wings shivered and flecks of light from them softened the harsh appearance of the asteroid's craters. "But why do you need so much to fly?"

"Humans don't have wings." I replied. I shrugged my thick miner's shoulders, and imagined my chiseled face, fractured bones, and scarred torso framed with gold, fluffy wings. marked with bumps. I had as good a chance of growing a second head.

"You really don't know anything, do you?" She sighed. "Have you even tried to grow wings?"

"When I was a kid, yeah. I jumped off the roof of my grandma's house. Didn't work out so well." I remember the second after I jumped, my stomach leaped out of my body, and I thought for sure I'd grown wings. Got a broken leg for my troubles. That and a lecture from grandma. Only angels and spaceships fly. You'll be an angel soon enough, she said. So I went for my piloting license instead.

The angel stared at her feet. "Is that when you lost your dreams?"

"No. My dreams changed, that's all." Or maybe they just eroded. Four years flying a commercial jet. Five years working like a dog to get onto a NASA exploration team. Failing that, I finally ended up here, ripping up asteroids for fun and profit. Better that than the military. At least shredding rocks meant I didn't have to kill.

She looked up at me. Her dark green eyes widened and her mouth drooped. "Maybe you should try again?"

"Try what?"

"Flying." She grabbed my hand and heat surged through the thick layers of my suit gloves. "Get out of that thing. Hurry."

"Are you trying to kill me?" I wrenched myself from her grip.

"You're almost out of time."

"Out of time for what?" I checked my left arm for the oxygen readout. It blinked red. Three minutes of air left. My stomach clenched. Impossible. There was no way we'd talked that long. Besides, the alarm should have sounded at fifteen minutes. How had she stolen my time? Fury burned my fear away. Delusion or not, angel or not, I wasn't going to let her get away with killing me. I shoved her back against the drill, put my gloved hand around her throat and squeezed. "What did you do?"

Crystal tears welled in her eyes. "It's not me. The wishing stone plays with time. I knew once you saw me, it was almost too late."

"Talarium's never done this to me before."

"Not at first. Only if your dreams are strong does it respond at all. And only sometimes."

The glow from her wings brightened. It surrounded her like a blinding aura. My helmet's visor should have darkened to save my eyes from the glare, but the light bored into my skull. The hiss of oxygen into my suit sounded like the last grains of sand falling through an hourglass. I loosened my grip.

Her chest heaved as though gasping for air. Ironic. Even through the helmet, I felt her breath on my cheek. She said, "The problem with humans is that you don't have any faith."

I knew I was a dead man.

"Tell me your name." I demanded. I couldn't imagine dying without knowing her name.

"Sandy."

I closed my eyes. "Tell me what I have to do to live."

"Pray," she said.

I heard the latch on my helmet unlock. Sandy yanked my spacesuit down to my knees. Pain ripped through me. I screamed. The air tore from my lungs. I felt betrayed. What had I expected, for my angel to save me? Soon, the water would evaporate from my skin. Then convulsions. In ten seconds I'd be unconscious. Just long enough to feel my bowels let loose.

I reached for her. "Please, don't let me die."

I saw only darkness. I heard my heart beat. My lungs filled.

"Am I dead?" I asked.

I felt her hand on my shoulder. "Open your eyes."

I did. She pressed against me, her arms wrapped around my body. Her golden hair smelled like roses.

"What happened?" I asked.

"You said you'd never grow wings."

"Was I right?"

She stepped away. "Look for yourself."

I craned my head back. My wings startled me. Neither gold nor fluffy, they were bronze and black, with visible tendons that shifted as they moved. A miner's wings. I laughed hard and tears welled in my eyes. "God knows how I'm going to explain this to my supervisor."

"You can't. He won't see you. None of them will."

"Why not?" My voice trembled. Maybe I had cut it too close this time, ignored the warnings and imagined her existence just as the oxygen expired. My wings shuddered. They felt real. I stretched them wide and saw their shadow touch the edge of the drill.

"It's always a one-way trip," Sandy said. Her expression was as remote as the darkest depths between the stars.

A lump formed in my throat. "When I first saw you, I thought you were an angel."

Sandy smiled. "That's so sweet."

"Was I right?"

"There are many different kinds of angels." She held out her hand. "Will you fly with me?"

I trembled as I looked at the asteroid under my feet. Did I really want to cut my last link to the world and fly through the winds of space for eternity? "Do I really have a choice?"

"Of course you have a choice." She blew a lock of golden hair from her eyes and laughed. "The first time you jumped, you chose to have wings."


About the Author
Vash Brandy is a 26-year-old Vet Tech/Writer from Philadelphia, PA. Her passions include writing (of course), visual art, science fiction and fantasy, Japanese language study, anime, cats, and martial arts. She's currently pounding away at a novel, as well as a number of short stories. Vash can be contacted at: vashinator137@yahoo.com.


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F2K Story The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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F2K Story

by Sherri Hosieni

As Big as the Heart Can Hold

Shades of Seattle gray, in the sidewalk, clouds, and raindrops, greeted Olivia as she strolled through the brick building lined streets of Pioneer Square, stopping at “Susie’s Posy Shop” to buy a bouquet of daffodils for her desk. Turning left at Cherry Street, she walked up the steep hill to City Hall, where she worked as a legal assistant in the City Attorney’s Office.

Repugnant urine stench met Olivia’s nose as she entered the building. An older man, with sunken eyes and blue veined, transparent skin stood in the corner of the lobby. Filthy, tattered clothing draped his emaciated frame. Olivia hurried past the security desk and sprinted into the first open elevator, hitting the “close” button before selecting her destination. She thought aloud, “I agreed with the decision to use the lobby as a nighttime homeless shelter, but sometimes it scares me.”

Angry citizens reporting barking dogs on Capital Hill and a sleep inducing planning meeting for the expansion of the law library made the morning pass quickly. The hands of the clock struck 12:00, prompting Olivia to think about a lunchtime visit to the free art museum up the street. Immersing her mind in the permanent collection of mostly nineteenth century German landscapes had become a ritual pleasure.

Jackhammers crunched the sidewalk on the north side of Cherry Street as Olivia walked out of City Hall. She always walked on the north side of the street, avoiding the south side’s long line of smelly, dirty people streaming out of a church basement food bank, like rats scurrying from a garbage heap.

“I’m going anyway,” Olivia sighed, as the pull of the museum’s tranquil spaces overcame her revulsion at walking through the ragtag, food bank masses.

She walked slowly up the south side of the street toward the overflowing line of people, picking up her pace as the line grew closer. Salty, hot sweat dripped down her forehead and into her eyes as she walked faster. Olivia turned the hungry people surrounding her into faceless obstacles, ignoring their very presence by focusing only on the cracks in the sidewalk, and noticing small gray pebbles and stray weeds at the edge of the grass.

Breathless, about midway through the line, Olivia stopped. Fear and panic shook her body. Her heart raced. A gentle hand touched her shoulder. She whirled around wildly. A grandmotherly voice said, “Are you alright, dear?” An elderly woman, holding the hand of a tiny, brown haired girl asked again, “Are you alright, dear?”

Wiping the sweat from her eyes and breathing hard, Olivia answered weakly, “I’m fine, thank you. I’m on my way to the museum. I was walking a little too fast and needed to stop for a minute.”

“I’m glad you are okay. Enjoy the beautiful paintings,” the woman responded.

Olivia ran to the door of the museum, set down on the steps and held her face in her hands. Hot tears streaked her cheeks. She reflected upon the man in the lobby that morning and the kindly grandmother in the line just minutes before. She thought, “Drug users and alcoholics are the poor and homeless. I don’t understand this.”

She stood up and walked back toward the food bank. An old man, wearing duct taped shoes; a younger man with one leg; and a woman holding a crying infant represented those in the long line. The man she had seen that morning in the lobby sat on the lawn outside of the church trying to chew on a crusty loaf of bread, even though several of his teeth were missing.

Olivia mustered her courage and walked into the church basement. A tall, young, African American man, wearing a nametag that read “Walter” greeted her. He smiled warmly and said, “Would you like some bread?”

“Oh, no,” she replied. “I walked by here on my way to the museum. I decided to learn more about what you do. May I volunteer for the rest of my lunch hour?”

“We can always use extra hands,” he said kindly. “It’s not glamorous, there is no pay, but the rewards are always as big as the heart can hold.”

“What do I do?” asked Olivia shyly.

“Mark!” the young man called out, “We have a new volunteer.”

An older man walked toward Olivia and said, “I’m Mark. It’s nice to meet you. What’s your name?”

“I’m Olivia,” she replied. “I only have about 45 minutes. Is that enough?”

“You bet it is,” Mark said. “Follow me and I will get you a name tag and an apron. Then you can join a group already filling up bags of rice.”

Olivia joined a table of five people pouring two cups of long-grain, white, rice into plastic bags and tying them shut in assembly line fashion. The minutes flew by. She headed back to work, vowing to return soon to help more.

Once a week, for the next three weeks, Olivia walked up the hill to help out, holding her head high and saying hello to everyone she met. Bouquets of daffodils, tulips and sweet peas, donated by “Susie’s Posy Shop,” filled her arms on each visit. They adorned the front desk in greeting of the now very visible food bank clients. She sacked rice, cut up loaves of bread, and sorted donated canned foods onto shelves.

On the fourth week, Walter greeted her at the door and said, “I think you are ready to handle the front desk.”

“I don’t know about that,” Olivia hesitated.

“I do,” said Walter. “Remember, no one is ever turned away. No questions are asked. We greet everyone with a smile, a kind word and dignity.”

Olivia’s heart raced. She had found these people disgusting, ignoring their very presence. Now she would face them directly.

A silver haired man, leaning on a scratched wooden cane, walked through the door. Olivia said, “Hello sir, how are you today?”

He didn’t speak, but motioned for a pad and pencil. Olivia placed them in his hands. He pointed to a tracheotomy in his neck and wrote, “I’m fine. It is good to see a smiling face. I can’t speak since they poked this darn hole in my throat. The doctor tells me that I’m going to die soon. The cancer is growing fast. At least I won’t starve to death.”

Olivia gasped loudly. She saw the breathing device in his throat. Walter saw her reaction and said, “Hello, Mr. Jenkins. We are pleased to see you. I have something special for you today.” Walter gave him a package of nutritional drinks, a bottle of multivitamins, and a variety of smooth soups, specifically selected for his needs.

Mr. Jenkins winked at Olivia and wrote, “I hope I see you soon. Thank you.”

Olivia operated the front desk each week and grew to love interacting with the people. Stories of illness, job loss, domestic abuse, and fear filled her ears. She also heard about free dental clinics, new jobs secured, and children’s birthdays. Olivia always anxiously awaited Mr. Jenkins arrival. He chatted warmly with her via the note pad, telling her about saving a small child in the Korean War, showing her pictures of his long dead parents, and providing strong opinions about the politics of City Hall. Olivia noticed that each week he looked thinner and his skin more ashen.

On an unusually bright sunny day Mr. Jenkins did not show up. Olivia prayed for him as she helped the other folks in line. The man Olivia had first encountered in the lobby of City Hall walked through the door, placed a small wooden box on the counter, and whispered, “He died. He was my friend.”

Olivia took a deep breath and lifted the top from the box. Inside, a note scribbled in familiar hand writing said, “Dear Miss Olivia. The doctor said I won’t see tomorrow. You were so kind to me. I take your smile with me and leave my smile with you.” A small, yellow, 1960’s style smiley face button sat in the box.

Tears fell freely from Olivia’s eyes. She walked around the counter, hugged the man, and said, “I’m so sorry. He was my friend too.”

Olivia rubbed the smiley button with her fingers and pinned it to her blouse. Walter noticed her tears. “Mr. Jenkins passed away, didn’t he?” he asked, placing his arm around her shoulders.

“Yes, he did,” Olivia whispered and pointed to the button. “He left me a gift as big as my heart could hold.”


F2K: an Introduction to Creative Writing teaches the basics of fiction writing. Since 1995, R.J. Hembree's free six-week course has helped thousands of writers from around the world. Writer’s Digest has selected F2K as one of the best sites for writers.

F2K has three objectives:

  • To help beginning writers learn the basic terminology of fiction writing (a good refresher for experienced writers too). Writers will also find the elements of fiction useful in non-fiction or poetry.
  • To encourage writers to habitually write without fear.
  • To give writers a chance to meet and develop friendships with writers from around the world.

At the end of each session, F2K sponsors a short story contest. Students who post all six assignments are eligible to enter. Each mentor chooses a finalist from his/her room. The finalists' poll is open to the general public for voting.

Read the past finalist stories at: http://fiction.4-writers.com/past-f2k-contest-stories.shtml




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Poetics The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Poetics

Glennis Hobbs

Yes, Virginia, You Can Find Some Help With Public Speaking Before Doing A Poetry Reading

Sooner or later after a poet publishes a poetry book, he or she will be asked to do a book launch and/or a book reading. The thought of getting up before an audience paralyzes many people with fear. Is there any help for overcoming the fear of speaking in public?

In his article “Painless Book Signings - A Little Pizzazz Never Hurts,” Steven Vernon (Freelance. May/June 2005. Saskatchewan Writers Guild) suggests enrolling in a Toastmasters class.

Toastmasters International is an organization dedicated to helping its members improve speaking skills, listening and thinking skills and helping improve leadership skills.

A Toastmaster who embodies these skills is Dallas Bagby. I first met her at a Toastmasters breakfast in Winnipeg.

At the time of the writing of this article, Dallas Bagby is currently serving as District Governor of District 64 which includes all of Winnipeg, the province of Manitoba and Northwestern Ontario, Canada and is a part of Region IV. The District is composed of 100+ clubs.

Bagby is a retired librarian who received her MLS from Dalhousie University and worked as a medical records librarian at St. Boniface Hospital. She has been a member of Toastmasters since 1991. While living in Arizona from 1996-2000 she served as an Area Governor. She has been a member of the District 64 Executive for four years. She is a member of the Goodbye Jitters, On Track and Crossroads Toastmaster Clubs in Winnipeg. She has also achieved her Distinguished Toastmaster’s status.

I had the further opportunity to meet with Dallas in April, 2004. She had always wanted to visit Flin Flon. She and a companion motored 500 miles (783km) to take part in the third annual poetry reading in honour of National Poetry Month (April). This is an event sponsored annually by Flin Flon Toastmasters Club #2065, the Flin Flon Writers Guild and the Flin Flon Public Library.

For Bagby, attending the poetry event was a way of adding more oomph to the trip.

When asked what her impressions of the reading were, she replied that it was a surprise. She had expected poetry to be so serious. There was more laughter and it was fun.

In fact, she enjoyed it so much that after participating, she took the idea back home and she and her Toastmasters colleagues did a poetry reading at the Daytimers’ Club in Winnipeg.

Again, April, 2005, Bagby and another Toastmasters colleague, Bev Phillips, journeyed to Flin Flon to take part in the fourth annual poetry reading held at the Flin Flon Public Library.

Bagby defines a poem as “words put together so that they stir the soul.”

Her favourite poets are Irving Layton, Ogden Nash and Glenda Walker-Hobbs.

Bagby feels that there is a correlation between poetry and public speaking. She says that “the best speeches have a cadence that sounds poetic, a message bigger than the individual words. The best speeches like effective poems impact the listener. The delivery can add so much to the words in both cases.”

A good speaker can add so much value to the written words’ messages. Some have animated sense of timing. Most of us have to learn it by trial and error.”

There is also a relationship between reading and public speaking. Toastmasters requires giving presentations and reading written material. Adding interest is not easy when you did not write the material.

Some of the Toastmaster Program requires steps which can be used for reading poetry. For example, in the Advanced Communication and Leadership program, the manual “Specialty Speeches” includes a step called Read out Loud, "the purpose of which is to communicate the thoughts, emotions, attitudes and intentions of an author through a reader’s performance.” Another manual, “Interpretive Reading,” also includes a step on the dramatic reading of a poem.

When asked what advice about public speaking she would give to a would-be poetry reader, Bagby replied: “Practice, practice, practice. It takes so much trial and error to find the best delivery that reaches the audience.”

Bagby feels that she still has a lot to learn both for reading and for public speaking. She says that the use of vocal variety, pauses and emphasis are crucial to succeed in both means of communications. The best speeches transcend the written words just as poetry can. Pacing and pauses are key, best it’s not obvious, how to pace or when to pause. Practice develops those skills in readers and speakers.

It takes time to arrive at a reading style. An artificial declamatory style delivered in a pseudo intellectual manner or a loud shouted poem will turn off your listeners. Practice is important as is knowing your material. If you can, practice in front of a mirror. Better still, tape yourself on a tape or CD or videotape yourself and listen to or watch the playback. Be your own best critic.

You’re not alone in having a fear of speaking in public. Toastmasters International is an excellent organization to check out. Check out their web page at http://www.toastmasters.org and the District 64 web page at http://ti64.org.

Bagby says that good speeches and good poems do the same thing: they move the audience, touch the experience, and convey more than one expected at first contact.


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Poetics Presents

Mo Swanson

Mo Swanson’s favorite place to be is teaching fourth grade in Warwick, RI. Her second favorite place is online writing poetry with all her wonderful friends at WVU. She is a member of Word Study Group at WVU and is also a member of P123, the Senior Poets Workshop.

Bells over the City

church bells sound
knees bend
people keeping faith

whispered words
maze of people
holy space

triggers pulled
shots ring out
shouts of rage

solemn sounds
death knells
on the holy day

Copyright ©2005 by Mo Swanson




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Submissions Guidelines (Updated)

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

What We Pay For

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What We Publish

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

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

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

What We Won't Publish

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

Simultaneous submissions.

Material that has appeared elsewhere (reprints).

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

Length Recommendations

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

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

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

Rights

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

Formats We Will Accept

Plain text in the body of an email.

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

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

Editing

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

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

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

Getting to Know You

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

How and Where to Submit

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

Fiction should be sent to fiction@thewritersezine.com.

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

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

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

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

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

Good luck!


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

 

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