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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

Suzan L. Wiener

Critique Without Being Offensive

Have you ever inadvertently hurt another writer’s feelings by making what you thought were constructive comments only to have them be interpreted as ill-considered and or even mean-spirited? You probably really meant to be helpful but it didn’t turn out that way. Or have you been afraid to say something negative in your critique, even to a friend, for fear the writer might take it personally?

Just as in everyday interaction with others, tact can play a big part in getting your point across when critiquing another writer‘s work. And you certainly don’t want to alienate an author who might someday be critiquing your work. Not if you hope to get fair feedback that might actually help you improve what you have done.

If you only make highly negative comments and throw in a few unkind personal remarks to round it out, it doesn’t take any great genius to conclude that the writer isn’t going to accept even the good points you might have made. After all, if you’re in a conversation and the other person is just saying negative things and making uncalled for comments, do you hang around and continue listening or find something better to do with your time?

The same premise holds true when doing a critique. Even strong criticism can be presented in a way that the writer will at least consider, if not accept. On the other hand, a “shotgun for a fly” approach has been known to hit beginners so hard they get completely turned off to the whole idea of writing, even as a hobby. That is definitely not what you are trying to achieve.

Here are eight ways to avoid that problem and still say what you really think about the writer‘s work.

When you write a critique, think about it as if you were receiving it, instead of writing it. That way, you will stay aware of where you might improve the tone so your point comes across without seeming harsh or malicious. Even if you feel it is an honest assessment of their writing, you can word it in such a way as to not attack the writer personally. This is the most important thing in critiquing and one that will define you as a critic.

Always start your critique by saying something positive about the work. No matter how bad you might think it is, try starting with a positive remark, such as "I can see that you have given thought to your piece, but..." Or, “You made a lot of valid points, but...” That way, the writer won't feel defensive from the onset. He/She will be open to read what you have written and will want to see what you have to say.

Assess the work in detail so the author will get an in-depth critique. Saying "This stinks, you wasted your time and mine," is meaningless and cruel. The author won't be able to make any necessary changes without knowing what the problems are. A beginning writer will often be grateful for constructive criticism, and even a more experienced one will give suggestions consideration if they are presented in a thoughtful manner.

Don't be afraid to give your honest opinion of the author's work. Keeping it to yourself won't help an author who wants to improve his or her writing. No one should be afraid of frankness as long as it is presented fairly and without maliciousness. In fact, they should welcome it. Remember, though, it is important to weigh your words carefully.

It's a good idea to print out your critique first before posting it. This way, you can edit your own work away from the computer and see if it needs to be changed, added to or, possibly, toned down.. Taking the time to do this forces you to view the critique as the author will and may even start you thinking about your own work.

Every piece has some redeeming value, even if it is only the idea at its core. But if it is truly written so badly that you would have to go on and on about problems and mistakes, it might be a better idea not to give a critique. Trashing it completely certainly won‘t ingratiate you with the writer and you won't feel good about it either. Instead, you can just say that “the idea was a good one but it needs a lot of work,” and then make one or two suggestions about major problems. You get the satisfaction of possibly helping someone and the writer is left with the impression that you are providing positive reinforcement.

Consider buying a book about critiquing, or at least find articles about it in The Writer, Writer's Market, or online from sites such as Google.com or Yahoo.com. It will be extremely helpful to you.

Critiquing may not come easy to you at first, but after awhile you will enjoy helping others with their writing. Even if you feel you aren't fully qualified to do it at the time you start, you are just because you want to do it. Once you post your critique, you have done a favor for someone who will no doubt appreciate it. Remember, “treat others as you want to be treated” really applies here. And if someone critiques your critique, consider it a learning experience.

About the Author
Suzan L. Wiener has had numerous poems, stories, articles and shorter pieces published in publications such as Canadian Writer's Journal, Mature Living, Saturday Evening Post, Verses, Poetry Press (first prize), NEB Publishing (first prize). She also has her unrhymed, love poetry e-book up at Lionsong Publications.


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Craft of Writing

William Bolen

Inner Critics, Fear, and Bathtubs

How do you get along with your Inner Critic?  I know you have one. Every writer does.  They oppressively lurk over our shoulders, jackbooted thugs that dismember our creative urges and pillory our dreams with judgmental disdain.  Occasionally, we may need these soul-munching Hannibal Lecters of the grammarian sect (who delight in nibbling on our creative livers with fava beans and a nice chianti). But the problem does not lie with summoning them.  They are sharks, and you need only split an infinitive—or even wound it—and they eagerly swim to the scent of spilt syntactic blood.

My Inner Critic is the bastard son of Arnold Schwarzenegger (the commando, not the governor) and Martha Stewart (the persnickety hostess, not the ex-convict).  His name is Marnold.  He intimidates me.  Perhaps I'm threatened by his ability to both bench press four hundred pounds and fold cloth napkins into lifelike swans.  He once reduced a decently written 3000-word short story to a pile of tear-stained confetti split at the molecular level.  He thinks all my ideas are corny (he actually says 'cawny'—I wonder if Kate Hepburn participated on the night Arnold and Martha conceived him?).  And he never lets pass the opportunity to inform me that I write 'like a crack-addled illiterate zombie with Alzheimers'.       

However, I'm not just writing this article as a personal lament, even though I do love a good lament now and then.  I'm here to foment a rebellion.  Trying to ignore our Inner Critics is useless.  This is war, and not a Geneva Convention sort of conflict.  Nope, this is guerrilla warfare.  Jungle Conflict.  It's a 'pee in the enemy's canteen and watch them make scrunchy faces after they drink' kind of war.

And I have a secret weapon.  I found a place where my Inner Critic will not go.  A few weeks ago, I was soaking in a scalding hot bath, trying to banish the stresses of the day by turning myself into a pale chunk of el dente pasta.  There I was, brainstorming an ending for a short story, when I realized my head was silent.  Well, not exactly silent; the water wasn't that hot.  I could hear my own voice happily babbling about the story, but where was Marnold? Then I spotted him.  He was standing in the bathroom doorway, fully clothed, staring down his nose at the hot bath as if it were a vanity-press published novel.  He couldn't get in the hot water.  I was free.

I splashed from the tub long enough to retrieve a pencil and notebook while blissfully dripping all over everything.  While I was out of the tub, Marnold prattled on in my ear.  Something about 'stilted prose' and 'overused concept', but I ignored him, and soon I was back in the bath, my pencil and paper in hand, ideas flowing unchecked from my liberated psyche.

Woo-hoo!

I had discovered my safe haven, my asylum (ever since I watched Jack Nicholson trip the thorazine shuffle through Nurse Ratchet's domain, I've always pined for an asylum I could call my own).  Now, whenever Marnold's gleefully inflicted censure becomes too much, I just slip into the tub—my ollee-ollee-in come-free home base—and send Marnold packing. How does this relate to you, fellow soldier in the war against the Marnolds of our world?  No, I'm not saying the tub will work for you (especially not my tub—it might get a little crowded).  Your asylum probably isn't a bathtub, but it does exist; you just have to find it. It might be a bookstore, or a library, or a shady place beneath the elm tree in your backyard.  It might even be a smooth spot on the shingles at the peak of your split level suburban castle, populated by two-point-five needy kids and one-point-five prozac prescriptions. Wherever your asylum is, go there now, and write.  When you come out, your Marnold will be waiting.  And you might need him, to a certain extent.  Someone has to X out all those self-indulgent soliloquies and jarring POV shifts, but you don't have to let him eat the heart (or liver) from your creation.

I'm finishing this piece up—you guessed it—in the bathtub.  Marnold is standing just inside the bathroom doorway, curling a dumbbell with one hand while straightening my 'Dogs Playing Poker' painting with the other.

When he sees this piece, he will either tear it to shreds or mark it up so completely that nothing salvageable remains.

But that's okay.

I've written out a second copy.   

The war has begun…


About the Author
William Bolen lives and writes on the bayou in southern Louisiana. His writing has been published in Chizine, Dawn Sky, Vacant Funhouse, Lullaby Hearse, Black October Magazine, Quietus, Dark Krypt, and Nocturnal Ooze.


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Craft of Writing

Donna Sundblad

Running the NaNoWriMo Race

Have you heard? November is National Novel Writing Month. Last year I joined myriads of writers picking up the NaNoWriMo gauntlet to run toward the 50,000 word count finish line. For those who have not heard of NaNoWriMo, its website says that, “National Writing Month is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000 word) novel by midnight, November 30.”

As I signed up, thoughts of insanity flashed through my mind, but I doused them with a bucket of wishful thinking. What could it hurt to try? A better question, where would I start?

Get Ready…
In the months previous to NaNoWriMo, I’d developed a series of related scenes by following writing exercises found in Pumping Your Muse. These scenes provided a rough outline for a novel, but lacked detail and depth. I met a few characters, had a basic layout for my fictional world and understood the main plot. With this assortment of short scenes clutched in my hand, I approached NaNoWriMo prepared to play a game of Connect the Dots with preexisting scenes. They didn’t count toward the 50,000 word count but provided stepping stones offering direction in the frenzied blathering of ideas from my mind to paper each day.

NaNoWriMo participants lined up at the November 1 starting line sporting working titles across their profiles instead of numbers. On day one, hope and excitement mixed with a touch of trepidation as we gathered.

Get Set…
If I hoped to write 50,000 words in a month, I needed a plan. I broke the task into manageable goals. The daunting word count goal of 12,500 words a week still sounded like more than I thought possible, but from there I broke it down to a daily goal of 2,000 words. If I attained my goal each day, I’d be a bit ahead of the mark, and it gave me a margin of safety if life encroached on my writing.

Go!
Word counter gauges registered zero. Stories bolted out of the shoot, developed and changed as characters grew. Plots thickened as characters interacted with their environment. Titles evolved in the process. Some participants started strong but limped the second week, losing momentum. Others dashed so far ahead of me that I couldn’t see their dust, only the huge word count.

Word upon word, line upon line, I steadily filled gaps from scene to scene. My thoughts lived within the Valley of Rocks, the Village of Chock and learned the secrets of the Windwalkers. The process forced me to write without going back to change or edit. In some cases, whole chapters emerged, while other times short scenes connected, filling in details. Gradually, the map of Trikel’s world took shape, offering specifics making the land of Windwalkers real. Trikel transformed into Manelin. I found the writing process fascinating. I couldn’t wait to turn the page as he made friends, recognized enemies and offered hope for the future.

According to the NaNoWriMo website, “The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly,” and it does. I had no time to ponder fine points or pull out the thesaurus to find a perfect word. The mission: Complete the first draft of a novel. At times I felt I’d signed on for Mission Impossible, but I plunged forward with both feet and watched the word count meter tally my daily progress.

Focus on Something You Can See
It’s important to keep your focus on the goal. I learned this trick when, as a runner, I ran long distance. Focus on something you can see. Once your reach it, move your attention to something down the road. Reaching smaller goals along the way boots spirits and encourages to keep going. It’s not a matter of keeping up with the other writers, but instead, staying focused on the personal goals you’ve set. Running toward the 2,000 word count each day provided measurable progress and a sense of accomplishment.

I tried not to compare my word count with fellow NaNoites. Self-doubt tried to creep in along the journey when I’d see someone write 20,000 words in a week, but I bumped such discouraging thoughts off the road by writing a few thousand words. I peeled my eyes off the word counts of others and checked my own. I needed to stay focused. 2,000 words a day. I could do it. No streamlining, no going back, I plowed forward. Along the way I met new people, made friends and got to know my characters.

An Exhilarating Experience
Are you cut out to run this marathon? It’s worth a try. When NaNoWriMo was founded in 1999, 21 people took part. In 2004, I stood with over 42,000 participants on November 1. Nearly 6,000 crossed the 50k finish line. What an exhilarating experience.

In my case, Pumping Your Muse set up a world, plot and a few characters on paper and solidified them in my mind. Scenes generated by the exercises in that book gave me a mental head start. If you’d like to check out the possibility of doing the same, you can preview the first three chapters of Pumping Your Muse here. Use the exercises to give you a jump start.

If you decide to join the organized melee at NaNoWriMo, you’ll run side-by-side with writers from all over the world experiencing the same pleasures and pitfalls. Even those who fizzle along the way complete something and gain experience even if it’s learning from mistakes.

Organizers work hard to make the site user friendly, and provide regional forums for writers to interact with others in their locale. If you happen across this article early in November, come on over to NaNoWriMo and join us. You don’t have to wait until next year. If you don’t have an idea for a storyline, or have an inkling but don’t know where you want it to go, consider buying a copy of Pumping Your Muse or a similar book to engage your imagination and capture fresh ideas with twists and turns that provide an unpredictable plot.

Writing a novel in a month provided an immense sense of accomplishment. Not only did I complete a first draft, but what was once Trikel’s world has been accepted for publication. The title of the upcoming book, Windwalker, reminds me of the NaNoWriMo experience. Come join in and run like the wind through fields of creative exploration and emerge with the first draft of a completed novel.

Hope to see you at the finish line.


About the Author
Author and freelance writer, Donna Sundblad, resides in Florida with her husband, Rick. Her creative writing book, Pumping Your Muse, is available in paper or ebook format. Check her website for more information at www.theinkslinger.net. Donna also edits for and co-owns Team Spirit Critique and Editing, LLC.


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Birdie's Quill

Birdie

Pitching Your Idea

The other day I had an opportunity to chat with an author I didn’t know. Within a short amount of time, he sent me a link to his website and asked me to read his three self-published novels. I glanced at his site and asked the genre of his books along with a few pertinent questions. Rather than specifics, he offered a vague idea of the concept behind his stories.

I explained that time constraints would not allow me to read his work anytime in the near future and suggested he query reviewers.

“What’s a query?” he asked.

His question shed light on the reason his website offered so little information. He didn’t know how to pitch his books.

A Trail of Breadcrumbs
In the fairy tale “Hansel and Gretel” the children leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find their way home. As writers, that’s the mindset we need. We sprinkle specially crafted breadcrumbs for others to find in hopes that each morsel generates interest and ultimately stimulates an appetite for the “whole meal.”

Consider the author I met the other night:

  • He caught my attention by introducing himself (breadcrumb #1).
  • Mentioned his books (breadcrumb #2),
  • Led me to his website (breadcrumb #3).
While we chatted, I visited his site. He’d piqued my curiosity. His website had a professional appearance and appeal, but it didn’t give me a clue as to the content of his books. I’d lost the trail. His nebulous answers turned the trail cold. Momentum diminished and the opportunity to hook me slipped through his fingers.

Know Your Market
It’s important to know your market and customize your pitch. I gather fresh market information from a variety of newsletters. Books like The Writer’s Market offer thousands of markets and pertinent information as to what individual publishers look for in submissions. Search out publications that seek what you offer.

For novel-length projects the majority of publishing houses will not consider unagented manuscripts. If you don’t have an agent and submit anyway, you’ll sentence your manuscript to the slush pile where it will die of neglect with thousands of unread submissions. Don’t waste your postage.

In some cases, you can get around this requirement by attending a writer’s conference. Many conferences offer opportunities to meet with agents face-to-face. If you pitch your idea successfully, they’ll ask to see more and provide direct contact information.

Another item to watch for in the guidelines is whether or not the publisher accepts unsolicited manuscripts. If the guidelines tell you to query first, put together a professional query letter selling your idea and asking permission to submit.

Have you found more than one possible market? If so, do they accept simultaneous submissions? If you want to send your manuscript to more than one publisher at the same time, this is called a simultaneous submission. Check the guidelines. Many publishers do consider them while others don’t. Know your market.

How Would Your Idea Fit
Tell the publisher or editor how your idea fits their needs. If you’ve done your homework you’ll know what they want. If the guidelines say: “Fiction: May include, but is not limited to, realistic stories, fantasy, adventure-set in past, present, or future. Humor is highly desirable,” would you send something written in the romance genre? No.

Publishers look for a “fit” and writers need to do the same. If your manuscript is a futuristic adventure story, it would meet the need of the above publisher. Focus on points of interest. In this case I’d make sure to highlight the adventure and futuristic aspects of the story. If a thread of humor ran through the text, I’d mention it. Fashion your query to sell them what they want and increase the chance for consideration. Custom fit details to address specifics the publisher desires.

Compare your work to an existing novel (or novels) that most closely resembles your story. Explain why your idea is fresh and why you think it will appeal to the same readership.

Your Story’s Purpose/Angle
Even works of fiction have a purpose. In a single sentence state your intention for writing the piece you’re submitting. What are you trying say about life? Incorporate it in your pitch.
For example: My intention is to take the reader on an imaginative journey; a spiritual quest that does not tell them what to think but stimulates one to question why they believe what they hold to be true.
Why Should The Publisher Print It
Something within the guidelines made you think they’d be interested. Zero in on key issues that make it a right fit.

Whether you submit a short story or novel, tell the editor what’s at stake. If your protagonist doesn't attain his goal, why does it matter? What are the consequences? Why would the reader care? Lead the publisher to think. Emotionally engage their interest.

Tie in market trends and current issues. Who is the target audience? What kind of people will purchase and read your novel? Be as specific as possible.

One trick that works for me is to imagine the manager of a bookstore asking, "Why should I place an order for your book?” What would you say? What is it about your novel that causes it to stand out in the sea of fiction?"

Qualifications
Sometimes it’s harder to put together something about ourselves that it is to write a novel. Learn to craft your autobiographical information to suit the publication. If you’re writing for a pet magazine, include information about being a pet owner. Part of who we are will be found in threads of the story we’ve written. Use this “expertise” or personal experience to your benefit.

New or unpublished writers struggle with this aspect of pitching an idea. Don’t draw attention to your lack of qualifications. If you’ve never been published don’t mention it. Highlight experiences or achievements that tie your life as a writer to your story. Even something as simple as love for the genre, when worded properly, works as a qualification.

Do You Have Images To Support Your Story
Don’t forget to mention photographs or illustrations if applicable. In some cases, offering visuals to compliment your writing makes the piece more appealing. Don’t send originals, but rather copies in case the submission gets lost or damaged.

Be Professional
Even when sending an e-mail, keep correspondence professional. It’s a good idea to confirm the current editor’s name (along with correct spelling). Stay focused but creative when presenting your information. Be sure to target areas of interest mentioned in the guidelines and provide the editor with more than one reason to say yes. Give the publisher an idea of the size and completion date for your manuscript, tell them a bit about yourself and finish with an enthusiastic close.

The shorter your query letter, the better the chance it will be read. You have one shot to get the attention of the editor. Don’t use fancy, hard-to-read fonts, or crowd text onto a page with nonexistent margins. Instead, choose your words carefully. Use a 12-point font. Your pitch makes the editor hungry to see more so be sure to include your contact information.


About the Author
Author and freelance writer, Donna Sundblad, resides in Florida with her husband, Rick. Her creative writing book, Pumping Your Muse, is available in paper or ebook format. Check her website for more information at www.theinkslinger.net. Donna also edits for and co-owns Team Spirit Critique and Editing, LLC.


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Fiction Short Story

by C.F. Ciccozzi

Bank On It

"You must be Texas Jim," I say to the burly man behind the counter, who glares then chomps down on his unlit stogie. "You serve breakfast?" Texas Jim grunts, unfolds his hairy arms, and pushes away from the back counter. Beefy hands slap a menu in front of me.

He brings my order, folds his arms across his barrel chest, and resumes his position against the back counter where he watches me eat. I'm uncomfortable. Between bites of hockey puck-like sausage and overdone medium eggs, I attempt small talk. "Texas Jim's Bar & Grill, how original."

Texas Jim frowns and clamps down harder on his stogie. "You got a problem with the name of my establishment, boy?"

Surprised by his reaction I match his belligerent expression, having learned long ago not to take crap from anybody. "What are you going to do about it?"

Texas Jim resembles a giant pit bull as he again pushes away from the back counter to move within inches of my face. I put my fork down and lean into his glare, expression as fierce as his. A few tense seconds pass before he lets out a belly laugh, slaps me on the shoulder, and says, "I like you, son; you got guts! Fresh coffee comin' up." Apparently I passed some sort of test.

The "fresh roasted" aroma wafts as he refills my cup and says, "What kinda work do you do?" I tell him I'm an author. "I didn't ask your name, son, I asked how you make money." I grin, thinking the man's joking. He's not.

"Um, I make up stories about people."

Texas Jim frowns. "And you get paid for that?"

I nod. "Quite a bit and it beats taking orders from some chump on a power trip."

"I hear ya, son," Texas Jim nods. "I used to run that bank over yonder till I got sick of wearin' suits and kissin' rich peoples' backsides." Saying he wore pink tights and a tutu would be more believable.

I watch him pull a fresh cigar out of his shirt pocket, remove the paper and replace the gnarly-looking stub. Clenching the clean stogie between his teeth, he says, "I bought this place almost twenty years ago and haven't regretted it a second. It's quiet in the mornings, but the joint starts hopping around lunchtime and gets packed on live band nights. That's when I really rake in the dough. I had a group in here last night that shook the rafters. Man, did that fiddle player know what he was doing!"

I see the gleam in Texas Jim's eye and notice the frown has been replaced with what I can only assume is a smile. "So what's the downside?"

One bushy eyebrow shoots upward. "Hell, that's easy," he says. "Findin' good help. Places like this have a high turnover, so you're constantly training new people, mostly kids. Then it's double-duty when the irresponsible little shits don't show up. And that's just out here; you wouldn't believe the incompetence in the back office! But hell, at least she can cook."

It's my turn to frown. "If the lady's incompetent, why don't you hire someone else?"

"Creature of habit, I suppose. Mildred's been with me goin' on 18 years now. She's the stupidest damned woman I ever laid eyes on, but we have a good working relationship." He laughs. "Translation: I say how high and she jumps. I'm telling you, the woman's scared of her own shadow. Never even asked me for a raise."

I wash down a bite of burnt toast. "But you've given her raises anyway, right?"

He shakes his head. "Oh, hell no. If she hasn't got the guts to ask, then I'm not volunteering. Why should I?" My eyebrows lift as I think of a number of reasons, but the man's not finished. "She should ask! Her damned car's fallin' apart. She has to leave the engine running when she stops at the store or she'll never get it started again. And another thing - she never takes a vacation. Alls I got to do is tell her I can't let her take off cause I need her here and you know what she does? Hangs her head and backs outta the room sayin' 'yes sir, thank you sir, sorry, sir' about a hundred and fifty times. Drives me nuts." He lets out a heavy sigh, as if the weight of the world is on his broad shoulders. "I swear the woman's so damned stupid, she has to study for an eye exam. She's lucky I put up with her; anybody else would of fired her on her 20th 'sorry'."

I hear a door creak. A woman enters from the back area, hands twisting. She wears glasses, a matronly dress, and "sensible" shoes. Her eyes flit from Texas Jim to me and back again. He ignores her. She creeps closer and softly clears her throat. As Texas Jim refills my coffee cup yet again, I look at the woman and smile. Her eyes flit to mine then dart away, hands twisting faster. Texas Jim puts the coffee pot back on the burner and barks, "What?" I jerk and coffee splashes out of the cup I've raised to my lips, but my reaction is mild. The woman nearly jumps out of her skin. It's the first time I've seen a cliché in action.

"I, um, er." Her hand clutches at her throat.

Texas Jim glares. "Well spit it out, woman." Mildred glances in my direction. Texas Jim booms, "Speak!"

Her entire body jerks, but she finds her voice and says, "Would it be alright if I take off tomorrow? Mother's going in for surgery and her doctor thinks I should be there."

"Her doctor thinks I should be there," Texas Jim mocks. "Well guess what? I think you should be here! You know what happens on Mondays, and you know I can't do it when I'm stuck behind the counter."

Mildred's shoulders slump. She fidgets, thinking aloud, "Maybe I can go to the Liquor Barn for your cigars, make the bank deposit, and take an early lunch to go to the hospital."

Texas Jim says, "I don't give a damn what you do on your lunch hour, so long as you remember it's a lunch hour." Then he says, "Wait. Swing back here after you go to the bank; I don't wanna have to wait for my cigars."

Mildred backs out of the room, saying, "Yes sir, sorry sir, thank you sir."

I wipe the spilled coffee from my cup and decide to stroke Texas Jim's ego, even though I'd prefer to punch his lights out. "You're a fascinating guy, the kind I'd like to write about. The way you make that lady hop, skip, and jump is something!"

He puffs up like a rooster. "Hey! If somebody wants to be a doormat, I have no problem walking all over 'em."

I stroke my chin as I ponder his words. "Hm," I say, "I wonder what happens the day you walk all over the wrong person." Texas Jim's eyes roll skyward.

"Oh, it will happen, my friend; you can take that to the bank." Texas Jim laughs as I stand and toss money on the counter.

"Is that suppose to mean I'm gonna get an ass-kickin'?"

I throw a couple extra dollars down for a tip and say, "I prefer to call it Karma, but I suppose your terminology is adequate, in an earthy sort of way. The interesting thing about Karma is that it catches up to all of us eventually."

Texas Jim chuckles. "Well son, when it comes, if it does, I'll make Mildred stand outside and sell tickets!"

I leave the Bar & Grill, head buzzing with insight as to what will happen over the next few weeks. I see it as clearly as the compact car I rented for cash under an assumed name:

Today I'll plug in my laptop, type two notes, and print both. I'll put one in an envelope and seal it for delivery in the not-too-distant future.

Tomorrow morning, Mildred's preoccupied, worried over her mother's pending operation. She stops at the Liquor Barn for Texas Jim's cigars and leaves the engine running. She comes out of the store only to discover that her car is gone and with it, the bank deposit she left on the front seat. I can see the color drain from her face as she frantically looks for her missing vehicle. I wish I didn't have to put her through that, but the scenario won't work any other way.

Tuesday morning's newspaper splashes Mildred's nightmare across the front page. The story details her stolen car and how she lost Texas Jim's deposit, the cash part of which totals $62,791.23.

The next day an anonymous tip from me, now three states away, leads the police to discover Mildred's car abandoned two towns over from hers. It's been stripped clean, except for a note addressed to Texas Jim that reads simply, "Karma".

Two weeks after that, Mildred receives a delivery by special courier. It contains $50,000 and a note that reads:

"You're free to call the police, who will promptly confiscate this letter and cash, leaving you with nothing. Personally, I believe you deserve every penny of what I consider to be 'Texas Jim combat pay'. The choice is yours."


I trust she'll choose wisely. As for me, I'll keep the remaining $12,791.23 and continue to make up stories about the fascinating people I meet in my travels.


About the Author
C.F. Ciccozzi resides in California with a better than "better half" and two cats that rule the roost. Author of many short stories, this is the third to be published. The inspiration for "Bank On It" came from a Writers' Village University Booster class taken earlier this year. C.F. Ciccozzi can be reached at cfc1020@yahoo.com.


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Fiction Short Story

by Brian Ross

Eulogy

My husband was an asshole.

Mrs. Henry Barrowman knew what she wanted to say. She had written it on four sides of A4 paper last night. There were so many ways to spell 'hate'. All she had to do now was get up there and tell everybody else. She looked anxiously at her watch and wished they would hurry it along. The Young And The Restless was due to start in half an hour, and she was at least that far away from home.

A pine box was a waste of good craftsmanship as far as she was concerned;  she would have chopped him up and buried him in a shoe box if she thought she could get away with it. Hell, she had been ready to throw his body in the fire even before she had read the will.

Even from beyond the grave he was clouding her day.

Well, if he wanted a coffin he could fucking pay for it himself. As soon as she got home she was going to throw all his shit onto the front lawn and have a yard sale. She wasn't going to be out of pocket so that jerk could have a roof over his head in the afterlife. What she didn't sell she could burn. Either way was good for her.

Now that she was finally free of her hateful, life sucking, bastard, son of a bitch husband, she couldn't believe it. Happy was not the word. She didn't think there was a word for how she felt. When she heard his evil heart stop she damn near had an orgasm, and that was closer than he ever managed during his life.

Emily had been a widow for six whole days, but she had barely even had time to enjoy it because people were still coming up to her and asking how she was holding up. People could be so insensitive at times. There were only so many times she could fake a few tears. It turned her stomach just to think she was pretending to miss that vile prick.

While she was thinking about it she reminded herself to ditch 'Barrowman'. Wearing a dead man's name was creeping her out. First thing in the morning she would call the credit cards, the bank, the fucking video store, and anybody else who knew her as Mrs. and have it all changed. Nobody by that name lives here anymore.

She took the podium when she was called up—a convincing heaviness in her step and what was going to have to pass for grief on her face. No Oscar performance, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. She was just glad she didn't burst out laughing.

The church was quite large yet Emily could not see an empty seat in the house. There were even a few stragglers standing at the far end. Standing! She couldn't believe it. Every one of them was a stranger. Even those faces she recognized were alien in their sorrow.

She wanted to shout and scream and pull her hair out. Had they all taken leave of their senses? This was no saint for Christ's sake; this was her husband—Henry Barrowman. Don't you dare mourn him, and if you must grieve, do it for me—I was the one who put up with his bullshit for fifteen years.

Didn't anybody know him?

Rather than cause a scene she bit down on her lip—so hard that she drew blood and actually did manage a few tears—and had happy thoughts about tomorrow. She felt like a caterpillar; cocooned in a marriage she had never asked for. Now that she had her wings she was ready to fly; take off and leave this old, rotten branch far behind.

The swathe of people below looked up at her expectantly: pale, muted faces against dark costumes. White on black. If they were waiting for something deep and meaningful—for her to shine a torch on their darkness—they were going to be disappointed. Love hurts; get a fucking helmet. That was your profundity right there.

Thanks to the bruise above her right eye she was wearing a little more black than was traditional, and depending on who was asking she had either walked into a doorpost or had fallen down the stairs. Again. It still hurt, but not like in the early days. After the third time she learned how best to take a hit—tricks of the trade—and years of practice applying make-up meant that even a keen eye could miss it if you weren't looking in just the right place.

Part of her wanted to keep the black eye as a promise to herself never to let it happen again, but that would mean being reminded of him every time she looked in the mirror, and that was what today was for—to get rid of the miserable bastard forever. Once he was in the dirt she could wipe her hands clean for good. Henry's olds sat in the front row. As a tear spilled down her father-in-law's cheek he tried to comfort his wife, but loud, wracking sobs doubled her over into her lap. Emily knew right then, at that moment, that everything she wanted to say and had a perfect right to say, would be news to them. Her truth was not necessarily theirs.

Maybe ignorance was bliss after all, because their parental love was pure, while her own love for him was brutal, dirty, and tarnished by abuse; a love bred from fear rather than desire. It had been a long time since she had loved him with a smile.

His parents were good people, which was as desperately confusing as it was sad. How did they end up with an asshole like Henry for a son? Surely they deserved more; then again, parenthood was a lucky dip. Not everybody managed to grab the prize.

She saw every face before her then—sadness painted on every one, and a black cloud above each head. Family and friends alike mourned his passing with genuine affection, as if he had played Jekyll with them but was Hyde for her.

And then there was little Craig, rubbing at his eyes and streaking his cheeks with tears. Four years old and sitting at a damn funeral. What kind of a start to life was that?

Poor kid.

In the sombre light he looked just like his father, and she knew he was laughing at her from the bottom of his box.

Emily Simpson took a deep breath, looked again at the congregation, and cleared her throat. Staring at Craig, she knew she couldn't do it. Not now. Not to her son.

Holding back the tears—but only just—she left her hatred folded in her pocket.

"My husband," she began, "was a good man."


About the Author
Brian Ross is twenty nine and was born under the sunny Australian skies, although he currently lives under the dark Scottish clouds. Current publications both online and print include: Laughout, Skive, Fools Motley, Stephen D. Rogers Presents, and Twisted Dreams, with upcoming appearances in Events Quarterly, Gold Dust, Wild Child, and the Shadow Box Anthology.


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Fiction Short Story

by Craig Murray

On The Right Road

He stood, staring out the rain-streaked window; his reflection seemed to weep as rivulets of oily rain trickled across the glass.  Water in the street collected into traps for the unwary, soaking pant legs and shoes of those oblivious of the potholes that waited for them.  The world had gone a deep blue-grey of threatening clouds and angry wind whipped trees.  Their branches reached out, imploring the storm god's forgiveness, supplications to save their few remaining fall leaves.

Without turning, he took another drink from the thin foam cup balanced on the window ledge. Grimacing, he swallowed the last few drops of cold, bitter coffee and dropped the cup onto the table beside him. Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed their annoying angry tune and cast a light that left everyone off-colored, sickly tinted.

A need to cry, a clawing desire to scream boiled up within him, he wanted to run into the downpour and lose himself in the storm's wrath.  He longed to fall to the earth, dead, consumed, pierced by the roots of trees and forgotten for eternity.  He wanted to die.

The café held all the allure of an outdated and rarely cleaned laundromat.  White formica tables, their steel edging bent and broken, sat seemingly scattered around the room.  Matching white chairs that had been old and out of style twenty years ago supported the few tired remains of those also trapped by the rain. 

His stiff fingers fumbled and fought their way into his jacket pocket until finally they found their prey.  Taking a cigarette from the pack, he quickly lit it and sucked the acrid smoke deep into his lungs.  It was his one savior and enemy rolled into a thin tobacco-stuffed paper tube.

Sighing, he dropped onto the chair he had recently vacated and stretched out in a show of artificial nonchalance.  He gazed about the room with feigned disinterest. 'Six people,' he thought. 'Six and myself, lucky seven.  That's us, the lucky seven trapped in this shithole, waiting for the rain to stop.'

He had the urge to slide under the table to the waiting floor and see if anyone noticed.  He wanted to collapse onto the floor and fade, just fade away until all that was left was a crumpled empty package of cigarettes.  He wished to drop and drop and drop again, an eternity of falling away.

He cursed under his breath as he spotted the broken gray trail of ash on his shirt.  There, trapped in a fold of fabric, lay the escapee, the mongrel dog that stained his front.  A half-inch of ash had fallen like some silent boulder, crashing down his shirt and leaving its rubble behind.  He moved his hand to swat it away but stopped short of making that mistake.  Unzipping his jacket the last few inches, he held it open and blew down his front.  The boulder of ash, dislodged by the hurricane from his lips, leapt forward only to crash one last time against his ankle before exploding on the floor.

A few more puffs and the errant reminders of his carelessness were blown off to mix with the general dirt that clung to every surface.  Turning to retrieve his cigarette from the tin ashtray, he cursed again as he realized it had gone out.  His need unrequited because of the distraction, he drew out another and lit it to chase the first.

He stared out beyond the glass, out into that darkened, soaked world.  What lay beyond that curve and over that hill?  He looked upwards into the massive blanket of angry, rolling clouds and for the first time in his life saw something new.

The cloud was no longer just a local aberration, an insult to his day, an affront to his being.  The cloud was a traveler.  It collected water from far off places and distant lands. Tiny droplets, evaporated over the shifting sands of the Sahara, mixed together with lush, green, tropical rains.  City children laughed in this rain and country gentlemen thanked the creator for it.

'The rain is not my enemy,' he thought.  It’s more than the maker of mud and the stopper of traffic.  The rain is a messenger, a cleaner, a sound. The rain is a note sung in perfect clarity if only one has the ears to hear it. Stick your tongue out and catch a drop of rain and you are tasting the world and all her places.  Stand naked in the rain and be washed by a thousand hidden streams and gleaming silver currents.'

The barest of smiles crept along the corners of his mouth and his hand reached tentatively towards the glass as he thought 'Laugh in the rain and share your laughter with every child who has ever lived.  Cry in the rain and she washes your face and takes the tears as her own.'

Now he felt the first tears build in the corner of his eyes; that rare, stinging sensation that he had not felt since he was a child.  He started to fight it off, force them back, when he suddenly changed his mind.

A smile flashed across his face even as the tears continued to build.  A new awareness evaded his thinking. It had been painfully obvious for all these years.  He’d viewed life as a series of miseries interspersed with occasional happiness.  But that wasn’t the case. Joy existed constantly if only one could see beyond the rain.  Rising, he pushed the door open and stepped out into the downpour.  He did not know where he was going, but at least he was on the right road again.


About the Author
Craig Murray’s fiction and poetry has appeared in numerous online and print publications, and was nominated for a Pushcart in 2004. When Craig is not writing, he is the Architectural Designer for a Conservation Authority as well as an Officer in the Canadian Forces (Reserves). His first novel, The Banshee, is being released later this year soon followed by his second, The Forgotten Man.


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Fiction Short Story

by C. Connor

One Breath at a Time

A warm wind scattered puffy white clouds across a brilliant blue sky. Dad mentioned the possibility of thunderstorms. The mid-afternoon summer air felt moist and stormy, but the clouds appeared soft and non-threatening and I settled back into the porch swing. Exhaustion remained my constant companion. I told myself the humidity zapped my energy. As I reached a hand out for the book I was reading, a sharp pain lurched through my side and burned a track through my healing flesh. I froze and forced myself to breathe deep and slow.

Breathe . . . it'll go soon. Breathe . . . it'll go soon. Breathe . . . it'll go soon.

A heavy shadow fell over me.

"You okay?"

"Yes."

"Pain?"

I nodded. Breathe . . . it'll go soon. Breathing hurt, talking hurt, nodding was okay.

"Do you need meds?"

I nodded. Dignity prohibited me from acting out my desire to expel a blood-curdling scream and wail like a hungry baby. Breathe . . . it'll go soon. My jaw seized and I remained silent as I clenched my teeth. Breathe . . . it'll go soon. The golden sun bathed my aching body. For a second, the light appeared as a halo floating over my bare legs. Breathe . . . it'll go soon.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back on the soft cushions. My arm slumped, my face grimaced and I held my breath as the pain pulsated through my body. Breathe . . . it'll go soon, it can't last forever. I struggled with my mantra and forced my mind to vision a field of yellow flowers. Each flower I picked eased one throb of the pain. Breathe . . . it'll go soon.

"Sweetheart, I need your left hand."

He lifted my limp hand from my lap. The yellow flowers disappeared and reality flashed into my mind. I watched him open a silver packet and wipe a cotton swab over the cap of the small IV tube protruding from my wrist. He pressed the needlepoint of the syringe through the self-sealing rubber cap and pushed the plunger.

"Okay?"

I nodded. Breathe . . . it'll go soon. I searched my mind for the field of flowers. He sat down next to me and sighed. Within minutes, a warm glow streamed through my veins and filtered into my brain. My head felt dizzy and all the hurt vanished.

"Dad?"

"Yes sweetheart." His arm tightened around my shoulders and he planted a kiss on the top of my head.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, sweetie."

I snuggled closer to the security of my dad's embrace. Despite the intense heat of the day, I felt cold. Goose pimples formed on my skin and I shivered. Dad tugged a thick quilt from the back of the swing and tucked it around me.

"Is it getting any better?"

"Yes, it is." Wrapped in a homemade quilt with my father's arm around me, I felt like a little girl again.

"Good."

My finger's traced the stitching of the fluffy blue cornflowers and smooth scarlet tulips that twined in a figure eight on the soft cotton quilt. "Daddy, what do you want for Father's Day?"

His chin moved against my head, "Two weeks ago I would have said . . . I want my daughter to come home safely. A week ago . . . I want my daughter to survive. Today . . . I want her to heal, no more pain."

"I am healing, Dad."

"I know you are. I just wish I could take away your pain."

I chuckled, "You did."

Dad's fingers twisted my hair, "I sure did."

"I'm sorry I worried you."

"Par for the course, sweetheart," He adjusted his hold on me, making us both more comfortable. "Father's worry, it's what we do."

"No matter how old their kids are?"

His voice wavered. "You're not so old. Besides, my eyes still see my baby daughter."

My tongue flicked over my lips. I wanted to tell him. I wanted so much for him to know his strength made me fight. The last image in my mind before everything went black was my dad painting at his easel. I smelled the oil paints, heard the brush strokes on the canvas, and saw his brow crease as he concentrated. I imagined him hearing I didn't pull through. I envisioned my boss, assisted by the Inspector, deliver the dreadful news to my unsuspecting father.

"Police Officer Louise Christianson did not survive surgery to repair damage to her abdomen caused by a close range gunshot. We are very sorry for your loss."

I may not be bulletproof but I survived. I struggled to produce a smile for my dad.

"You made it." He whispered. "Life will be good again."

My eyes closed as Dad sung softly, "Hush little baby don't you cry . . . Daddy's gonna sing you a lullaby . . ."

The porch swing rocked gently as Dad sung. The image of flying bullets, people scattering about, and blood seeping from my torso faded behind my droopy eyes. No guns, no pain. Nothing hurt me now. I felt safe and wanted to stay in the swing forever, but the voice in my head reminded me of my purpose. I needed to heal, pick myself up and get back on the streets.

Weakness overwhelmed me as I listened to Dad sing. The familiar childhood lullaby calmed my restlessness and I snuggled closer to the safety of my father's strong arms. I inhaled without pain, remembered life's good moments and fell fast asleep. My dreams lifted us to the pale blue sky and we floated through puffy white clouds.


About the Author
Cat has had an interesting year writing-wise, with several of her stories finding homes in various online and print magazines. She is currently trying to find a home for her novel. Cat is amazed at what she can accomplish when she doesn't feel like studying! She is not entirely sure what inspired this particular story. She's hardly ever sure where her inspiration comes from. Cat is halfway through her Private Investigator's license. She lives in New Zealand with her husband and children.


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Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz

Our Drabble for this month, on the theme of something in our lives that is physically temporary but necessary, is Fiction Work, by Anonymous.

Fiction Work

My heart is entangled, still, in his. My breath catches when I hear in his voice a certain uncertainty. He's close, just at the other end of an electronic tether, yet it's been years since that voice, in person, has addressed me, engaged me. His eyes now tell me he wants something of what we had—his words equivocate. I turn, he pulls me back, only to say he didn't mean it. He saved my heart, and holds it now, now that it is not the time for that. I turn again, to someone else, and now there are two.

Hurricane Katrina has brought up some lingering issues for many of us, and definitely for me, these past couple of months. What I keep thinking about most is one of the most common questions asked: How could it have been impossible to get food and water to thousands of people dehydrating, some dying, in the baking sun for days and days, while journalists documented the whole episode?

It is incredibly uncomfortable not to know something of such great emotional and bodily importance. And the question about how this could have happened brings up the question of how other things, in our personal lives, could have happened. How could the paramedics have driven around for fifteen minutes before getting to my mother, when the address was clearly marked? How could the friend who I lean on for all kinds of support and wisdom, have allowed a medical condition to go on without treatment until it now perhaps irreversibly threatens her life? How could I have not planned for this next financial stage in my life?

What do we do when we don't know—do we cry foul, investigate any errors that might have been made, make a monetary contribution, volunteer, write a poem, put together a benefit concert? What do you imagine the best response to be? Put it in a Drabble. The guidelines, summarized, are: 100 words exactly, excluding title, and submitted to drabble@wvu.org within 10 days of this ezine being sent out. So the theme is, what do we do when we don't know? 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!


T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
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Poetics Presents The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Poetics Presents

Elizabeth Barrette

Elizabeth Barrette writes speculative fiction, gender studies, and alternative spirituality. She serves as Managing Editor of PanGaia. She also teaches poetry at the Grey School of Wizardry. She won Sol Magazine’s 2003 Poet Laureate Competition. Publication credits include poems "ExCommunication" in Dreams & Nightmares and “The Poltergeist of Polaris” in Pedestal.

So You Want To Be A Writer

Did you think it was done
By strangers in garrets?

It’s done by people like you and me,
In spare rooms and coffee shops.

Did you think it required
A college education, or maybe a Clarion?

Well, you need to be able to read and write.
Anything else is gravy.

Did you think it would win you
Fame and fortune?

It might. But mostly you’ll scrimp, while
People laugh and ask about your “real job.”

Did you think it happened on its own,
Like mushrooms magically appearing overnight?

A novel takes about as long to make as a baby,
With all the attendant sweating and screaming.

But it will take you to worlds that never were,
Or are elsewhere, or may yet come to be.

It will leave you crawling through library stacks
Seeking books about catapults and astrogation.

It will wake you in wee hours, send your
Still-dreaming fingers scrabbling for pen and paper.

It will pursue you, and consume you,
And transform you.

Did you think it would let you get away
Now that it’s got a taste for you?

Think again.

Copyright ©2005 by Elizabeth Barrette




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Poetics Presents

Helen V. Lundt

Helen V. Lundt lives in upstate New York. She has worked as a nurse's aide in a nursing home for seven years, then as a nurse in a local hospital for twenty years. She and her husband have traveled many miles by motor home through the United States. Helen started with WVU about three years ago and is a member of the Senior Poets Workshop. She has been published in Coachmen Capers, U.S. Legacies 2004 and 2005, online and in magazine, as well as T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine.

Battle Cry

My cry is for the boys who do not know
of struggles in their lives they have to face -
their playful battles - real in time’s great race.
I weep for those young men so keen to grow.
The same for mothers, ‘round the world is so.
They watch their Johnny playing in this case
knowing that one day could be his place;
his antics changed to war games with a foe.

But now his golden locks fly as he runs.
His laughter as he looks to see my wave
reminds me that he’s still a little boy.
No worries now, I’ll let him have some fun.
Problems in the world we’ll have to save
for my son when he rids himself of toys.

Copyright ©2005 by Helen V. Lundt




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Submissions Guidelines The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Submissions Guidelines (Updated)

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

What We Pay For

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What We Publish

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

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

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

What We Won't Publish

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

Simultaneous submissions.

Material that has appeared elsewhere (reprints).

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

Length Recommendations

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

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

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

Rights

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

Formats We Will Accept

Plain text in the body of an email.

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

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

Editing

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

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

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

Getting to Know You

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

How and Where to Submit

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

Fiction should be sent to fiction@thewritersezine.com.

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

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

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

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

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

Good luck!


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Copyright 1998 - 2007, Writopia Inc. All Rights Reserved

 

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