Writers In The Mist

Hello Friends--

2007-07-26T09:07:00.000-07:00

I've posted some of my poetry here. Critiques welcome. I am still working on getting a publisher for my first novel FROM PHARAOH'S HAND, and I have a current work in progress, FROM THE DUST OF ROSE HILL.

Just thought you might be interested in what I've been up to while I've been away. I have also started a youth novel, yet untitled, to fulfill my need to write about horses and the Southern way of life.

I recently had a nonfiction essay, "Burkett Street Revisted" published at Dew on the Kudzu for which I am very grateful. I am slowly building a web presence and can be visited a number of places including on Myspace , Shoutlife, and Faithwriters.

Hope all is well in your writer's world and that you are accomplishing much today. I'd like to leave you with one of my poems:

When Sometimes Shattered

When sometimes shattered, we seek to save ourselves as best we can.
Preferring to suffer in silence and to cry alone--
Than have pity place us in a lower rank, we writhe
In darkened corners crumbling at the edges of sanity--
Almost, but not yet too far gone to feel the pain.
Bemoaning lost chances, lost words that dissipated
Like dew in the mid-morning sun, we grieve,
And our darkened world keeps spinning, spinning, spinning--
Into the early morning hours as we toil
To put the tiny pieces back in place...
And hope against all hope that when the glue is dry,
We will at least resemble something of our former selves,
So that none will be the wiser.

--Cynthia H. Green @2007

Rejections, Rejections.

2007-06-08T17:12:00.000-07:00

"Thank you for your submission for the End Piece department. While I enjoyed your piece, "My Necessary Strugles..." While I enjoyed the piece it is too long fo rhte redesigned magazine. Our maximum word count limit is 550."

Thank you for considering XXX

XYZ

Editor/Co-Publisher

No, this is not a rejection letter from an X-rated magazine. Nevertheless, it is a rejection letter from a magazine. And no, that is not my typo; it was disclosed in this manner.

How did I react? At first, I didn't. I couldn't. My daughter was sreaming for a cookie.

Once I provided for my cub, it was time to ponder. The first thing that popped into this thing they call a brain, I sent this submission waaayyy back in November of 2006. It may as well have been 1986 it was so long ago. Second, I'm too busy with other projects to be preoccupied with self-pity. Third, um, well there is no third. Let's just say I've grown violently irritated with moral victories. I'm ready, like any good crusader, for blood and sweat glory.

I've been "lucky" enough, I am further told, to have had editors take the time to personally write me a note telling me how much "they enjoyed my work but they do not fit the needs of the magazine at this time." Or "very interesting but we're not sure how we can use this." Aw, golly gee. Punch me in the jaw. Anyway, back to this particular rejection letter. This is the first time I've been turned down because of word count. What's next? I used the wrong font? At the time of my submission the guidelines stipulated 700 words and that's what I gave them. In the interim, they reinvented themselves and ta-da! 550.

Here's what I don't get: If an editor likes a particular piece of work (as they claim) aren't they the ones who make the final decisions?

I'm too much of a pragmatist and realist to wallow. It is what it is and the reality is that I simply did not get the job done - though I must profess how some writers are lucky enough to get paid for the trivial drivel they spew. The bottom line is if editors liked this scrawny little scribe's midlding thoughts so much they could have found a way to fit me in. A more genuine response would have been "we liked your piece however it does not meet our new word count guidelines. If you can cut it back please feel free to resubmit and we'd be glad to give it a second reading."

Right?

Right.

The unfortunate thing about all this is that I may no longer have the luxury of time to further refine my craft. Writing takes so much time and energy. You can't plan your day around writing. You write when the spirit moves you.

I don't want to go into "what coulda been" bin but it's becoming increasingly hard to fight these battles. Though I am happy with the potential I have been accorded with my new businesses, God gave me a talent and it would be nice to explore it more; to have the chance to mature and grow. For example, I write/contribute for a magazine called 'Exceptional Family". The editor, God bless her soul for giving me a shot, feels I have "the goods" as she put it. However, in order to reach the next level I need to professionalize my work. And getting to that next stage takes massive effort. I can't do it with the limited time on my hands. We'll see moving forward.

If you want to read the actual article please feel free to ask me. I don't know how to link a word file on blogger.

Chapters 1 and 2

2007-06-02T18:39:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone.

I have just posted chapters 1 and 2 of revision2 of my book "Black, White, and Shades of Gray" on my blog. I have actually revised 6 chapters, but I haven't got them all typed in and happy yet.

The changes aren't major, but I have added and taken away stuff here and there.

I reread my first draft version of chapter 1 for comparison, and this has come a long way since then.

Feel free to read and comment on the newest revision.

My Encouraging Note From Australia

2007-05-02T23:10:00.000-07:00

After a seemingly long wait, I received my response from Penguin Boks in Australia today. Although they passed on my book, their suggestions and comments were both welcome. Here is their response in its entirety:

****
This is a well written story with a strong plot and lots of appeal. There is some vivid description and observation and it brings alive an important part of America's history. It is plot-driven, rather than character-driven, and sometimes the story could benefit from more variation in pace and tone. The resolution feels a little rushed and convenient. Patrick's father's treatment of him is so callous that at times it is hard to believe. He has lost his family why does he risk losing the only son he has left? Some more context to the characters' motivations may be helpful. The treatment of the slaves is a very sensitive subject and it is handled with care and thought here, although at times it could have been more emotionally charged. The author of this work shows promise, and although this particular story is a little too specific for Penguin Australia to take on, I would encourage the author to rework and submit to American publishers.
****

Not to shabby for a first rejection, eh? The thing that is most encouraging about this for me is that the version they read was my first revision. I am going to take their suggestions to heart and encorporate them into my current revision. I am about 1/3 of the way through.

Can I get a WOO HOO for the Cheez?

Discussion on Inspiration

2007-02-24T19:34:00.000-08:00

Where do your ideas come from? What is your fount of inspiration? How do your flashes of brilliance wind up? What motivates you to take a fleeting thought and make it into a story, or a book?

I have discussed things like this with my local writing group, and it is interesting what brings a short story, a poem, or a novel into being. Many people struggle with these questions within themselves, especially when they want to write something, but the inspiration is not there.

Do you have any tricks to spark an idea? Do the ideas just pop into your head?

When it came to my writing course assignments, I was taught several tricks to inspire a story. These are handy when you are flat out of ideas and need a little boost.

My books are a different story (no pun intended) altogether. I don't sit down to write a novel with no direction. For me, an idea has always presented itself out of the blue, and I take it from there. For example, my book that is currently being considered by Penguin Books began as a simple thought about a slave owner's son befriending a slave boy. That was it. I had no idea where it was going to go, but I thought it would be a good premise for a story.

My book "The Mobius Rift" was inspired by the trailer to the movie "Secret Window". As I watched the trailer, I misunderstood what was happening, and thought What a cool idea! When I found out that I had misinterpreted the trailer, I got excited, because they didn't have the idea, I DID! So this book which is now my primary focus, has grown into something that I think is a unique concept. At least I thought that until the dern Will Farrell movie came out with a part of my idea. They missed the best part though.

My latest idea for a book came out of the clear blue sky. My idea wasn't a story situation, it was simply a title: "Serial, I". This sparked a flood gate of ideas some of which have been written out in the beginnings of my new manuscript. The book will be about a serial killer, with a view into his own mind.

Tell us how your ideas come. Harry Potter "walked right into" J. K. Rowlings mind as she sat on the train at Kings Cross Station. Who knows what might become of the ideas that walk into your mind?

Vote for Your Favorite Contest Entry!

2007-02-10T11:27:00.000-08:00

The entry from Linda:

MY SCARIEST DAY!

It was a beautiful day. The kind of day that makes you want to be outdoors. I was enjoying the sun dappled shade of a towering oak when I noticed a young girl setting a picnic for one. She was lovely, with golden hair that fell in natural tendrils around her face. Her eyes were a deep shade of blue that rivaled the sky on this warm summer’s day. She wore faded blue jeans and a blouse the color of a lime. She was barefoot, having taken off her sandals, and I noticed her toenails were painted pink with little white flowers on them.

As I was also alone that day, I decided to venture a little closer and introduce myself. Perhaps we could picnic together. I enjoy making new friends and the park is usually a great place to find them.

As I was getting closer I could see the items she was setting out for her picnic. She had lain out a red and white checkered blanket on which she had her opened picnic basket and a small stool to sit upon. She pulled out her utensils, a cloth napkin and finally her meal. An odd meal, I thought, it looked like cottage cheese.

I had gotten close enough to introduce myself and quietly cleared my throat. That is when we made eye contact for the first time. Then all hell broke loose. She let out the most horrific scream I have ever heard. I covered my ears, in vain, trying to block out the noise. She started waiving her arms in the air, swinging at me, and yelling “get away, get away from me”!

I didn’t know what to do, my heart was beating so fast and I didn’t know what had set her off. I tried waiving my hands back at her to tell her to calm down. That set off another wave of screams. This time she picked up her napkin and started swinging it at me. She knocked me off balance and I fell to the ground. Before I could get up she picked up one of her sandals and started swatting at me. I was so terrified the only thing I could do was quickly crawl back up my line, into the safety of my web, in the sun dappled shade of the towering oak.

Copyright 11/2006
Linda Voss

**************************************************************

ALESSANDRO'S ENTRY:

RED FURY:
It was a beautiful day. The kind of day that makes you want to be outdoors. I was enjoying the sun dappled shade of a towering oak when I noticed a young girl setting a picnic for one. She was lovely, with golden hair that fell in natural tendrils around her face. Her eyes were a deep shade of blue that rivaled the sky on this warm summer’s day. She wore faded blue jeans and a blouse the color of a lime. She was barefoot, having taken off her sandals, and I noticed her toenails were painted pink with little white flowers on them.

As I was also alone that day, I decided to venture a little closer and introduce myself. Perhaps we could picnic together. I enjoy making new friends and the park is usually a great place to find them.

As I was getting closer I could see the items she was setting out for her picnic. She had lain out a red and white checkered blanket on which she had her opened picnic basket and a small stool to sit upon. She pulled out her utensils, a cloth napkin and finally her meal. An odd meal, I thought, it looked like cottage cheese.

I had gotten close enough to introduce myself and quietly cleared my throat. That is when we made eye contact for the first time. Then all hell broke loose. She let out the most horrific scream I have ever heard. I covered my ears, in vain, trying to block out the noise. She started waiving her arms in the air, swinging at me, and yelling “get away, get away from me”!

I didn’t know what to do, my heart was beating so fast and I didn’t know what had set her off. I tried waiving my hands back at her to tell her to calm down. That set off another wave of screams. This time she picked up her napkin and started swinging it at me. She knocked me off balance and I fell to the ground. Before I could get up she picked up one of her sandals and started swatting at me. I was so terrified the only thing I could do was quickly crawl back up my line, into the safety of my web, in the sun dappled shade of the towering oak.
Copyright 11/2006
Linda VossIt has been ordained upon me to convey a story of grand importance to you all. It is a shocking story. A stupid story indeed, but one that needs to be told lest we all make the same mistake. It is a fable about a man, his stuffed peppers and one mean red pepper.

Mitch had been happily perusing the produce section in a local grocery store. He had just been promoted at work and felt like making his favorite meal - stuffed peppers. He was examining and considering a pack of peppers: one orange, one red and two yellow.

Peppers at the time were very expensive. Only the green ones seemed to go on special. But never the other colours. In the pack he saw value and decided to buy them.

"Congratulations, sir! You picked the secret family pack! Smile!"

It was a promotional scam but Mitch didn't care.

"Here's your picture."

He looked at himself holding the peppers and he liked it.

"Your name will go into a grand prize draw at the end of the month!"

He remained oblivious.

He could not keep his eyes off the peppers while they sat in the carriage. The perfect smooth contours and their bright colours excited him. The family of peppers stared back at him.

"Ooo, I could just eat them up now!"

On the way home, he watched the peppers in his rearview mirror. It was a difficult ride for him.

It is obvious at this point during my story that Mitch had an unhealthy obsession with peppers. Who are we to judge?

Carefully, he placed his peppers on the counter. With the precision of a tailor he began to weave and cut the top of the peppers. He smelled them with glee.

Normally Mitch cooks four peppers but for some reason on this day he decided on three. He figured he could use the fourth in a salad the next day. He glanced over to the sky, which was orange, and continued to prepare his meal.

Soon he was eating in ecstasy. Later that night he went to bed. He forgot to put the last pepper in the refrigerator. Let this be a lesson to you all. Never leave a pepper to roam free.

The next morning he noticed the pepper was still on the table. He did not realize it had moved three steps to the right from its original position! He was about to wrap it up but the phone rang and distracted him.

"I'll be right over."

He grabbed his coat and hat and left in a hurry.

There sat the pepper.

Suddenly and strangely the pepper spoke. "He murdered my family. I shall exact my revenge."

His tone was fiendishly evil. This pepper was scorned. It looked around the kitchen and noticed an eggbeater. He also spotted some knives, a wooden spoon and a marble rolling pin.

"Any of these will do," he chuckled.

The pepper moved but fell awkwardly to his side and was angered by what he saw. That is, the half-eaten corpse of his yellow brother. He could barely contain his emotions. He recalled the time when they were picked as a family by the farmer to be packaged off. They thought it was to be the start of something beautiful together. Instead, it ended in debauchery.

"Revenge is a dish best served cold. Not micro-waved," he said.

Mitch came back home one hour later. Once again, not being attentive, he had not noticed the pepper had moved again. Let this be another lesson. Be alert. Society and nature punishes the dimwitted.

Mitch went to bed that night with an uncomfortable sense of foreboding. He brushed his teeth and removed his pink slippers. He stared into the mirror and wondered. He did not notice the angry red fury of the pepper in the background.

"Damn, those peppers were delicious," he reminded himself as he jumped into bed.

Minutes past. The pepper waited for his moment.

"Rapid eye movement. REM. When he's there I will take his life."

With Mitch in deep sleep, the red pepper quietly and disturbingly began his ascent. He moved up to Mitch's chin like a rolling kamikaze.

"Hello!" he shouted.

Mitch opened his eyes and was soon engulfed with fear. He began to scream. Like this, "Arghh. Arghhh."

"W-who are y-you? Wh-what d-d you want?"

The little red pepper mimicked Mitch's nervous stutter. "S-s-shhh," he answered with a giggle.

Then, nothing. Blood splattered everywhere as the red pepper furiously cut Mitchell up. The blood could not be distinguished from the red pepper as the two meshed. It was a warped Dali scene.

The little red pepper held Mitch's heart in his hands. Holding the organ seemed hilarious to him.

The cold knife lay peacefully between Mitch's eyes. Minced meat and rice was scattered all over the body. The little red pepper looked back at Mitch's corpse with a smile and a tear as he quietly left the room.

He headed for the kitchen. "I got nothing," he uttered to himself.

He sat up on the counter and looked straight into the trash compartment in the sink. He looked up for a moment and jumped.

The picture taken at the grocery store lay crumpled on the table.

Copyright 1/2007
Alessandro
**************************************************************

And just for kicks, here's mine:

THE GREATEST DAY
by Dave Hanks

Today was Steve's greatest day, his girlfriend said yes, he got a promotion and a fat raise, three of his stocks split, he won the lottery, the weather was ideal, and his favorite team won. It was the most perfect of days until he got hit by the Greyhound bus.

**************************************************************

Now take a moment and cast your votes!

An Update of Sorts...

2007-02-07T20:18:00.000-08:00

Hello everyone,

I first off wanted to let you know that I want to get this site rolling again. We have had a lot of fun, and several friendships have been forged here.

We have a new member: Ginger, who is a member of the writer's group I attend here in Mesa. She has published numerous articles in Christian magazines, has written stage plays for children's theatre, and is currently editor of the Red Mountain High School Band-Boosters Monthly. I will being taking over that position later this year.

Other news:

Jill is in the process of querying her novel The McFaegen-Doughty Chronicles: Netherpoint and has received some rejections, but with very encouraging comments. She has already begun the second book in the series, as yet untitled.

My novel Black, White and Shades of Gray is currently in the hands of Penguin Books being considered. I have received a couple preliminary emails with encouraging statements in them. I also have my novel The Mobius Rift about 2/3 completed in rough draft, and I recently started another one I am calling Serial, I.

Cindy is querying her Christian Novel From Pharaoh’s Hand. I haven't heard from her whether she as had any responses yet.

If I recall properly, Jennifer is also working on a novel.

Todd's (aka Gus) book The Cure for Heart Disease, that he Co-Authored with Heart Surgeon Dr. Dwight Lundell is currently being printed. They are still waiting on cover designs to approve them, but the official release will be March 2nd.

If there is any other submission/rejection/publishing news, please post it here so we can all celebrate, or offer words of encouragement.

Happy Writing!

Good things are afoot

response to challenge

2006-11-26T10:12:00.000-08:00

I have posted my story in response to Dave's challenge.

My Scariest Day!

Well Worth the Faint

2006-11-10T16:17:00.000-08:00

Hello all. Me again. I entered a contest given by the Canadian Broadcast Corporation. The tale is a humourous personal account of my knee surgery. It runs for roughly 1200 words. Wasn't sure if I should post the story itself or a link.

A marvelous blue sky clashed poetically with my off-white linen attire. The sand never felt softer as it comfortably formed itself under the soles of my feet. Walking along the shore, I observed that the water was much calmer than it was the previous day. Cool and assertive, it therapeutically surrounded my ankles. Wind and air were the next elements. This time, it was the contours of my face that benefited. My feet, ankles and face were all being seduced by earth's finest elements. What could make this dream fresco perfect? Caravaggio painting the scene? I settled for the next best thing. A scantily dressed sensual lady showed herself as she jumped into my arms. I was set.

With one eye open I could see a thick blanket of frost had designed itself on the window of my bedroom. "Dreams can be so cruel," I thought aloud, as I clamored out of bed.

The second my foot hit the wood floor, my knee reminded me that it was indifferent to sultry dreams about a sexy girl, sand, water and air. It was damaged and no amount of natural voodoo hocus-pocus was about to fix them.

After many weeks of ignoring the truth, it had become glaringly apparent to me that it was time to go under the knife. Conventional medicine beckoned!

I sat like a bump on a log in the examining room. My mind occupied by the fact that I was being yanked out of regular school and sent to prep school. I wasn't a very reliable student. Just as I was about to pull out an apple from my pocket, the doctor walked in.

He asked two questions and said, "That's an ACL tear."

"What's an ACL?" I meekly asked.

"You're anterior cruciate ligament. You see, the ligaments that run…" I tuned out as he began to rub his knuckles together to explain how the ACL functions.
"Oh."

"Let's check you out."

Medically speaking.

He took my leg and placed it between his arm and chest and began to push and bend the leg towards me.

"Feel that?"

"Yes."

"That's your ACL giving way,"

I tried every way to weasel my way out of it. I asked the specialist if it could be rehabilitated through physiotherapy.

That sound you hear is the exaggerated laugh of my doctor.

Once he regained his composure he said curtly, "No. Judging by my examination it's completely torn."

I tore it nine times.

That was that. More impressively, he accurately deduced all this without the benefit of a MRI.

I was 18 years old and already washed up. A soccer player has-been before it ever began.
Nonetheless, if I wanted any shot at an active life the knee had to be sliced open, stapled and stitched. My decision was made.
While wearing those girly gowns I had a choice of a full anaesthetic or an epidural. Italian or ranch?

"What's the difference? I asked.

"Under a full anaesthetic you are asleep throughout the surgery. With an epidural we freeze from the waist down. You can witness the whole thing," the doctor explained. I decided to go for the epidural. Ring side seats to my own repair. All I was missing were some peanut M&M's.

"Ok, Alessandro. Here we go. It's the right knee," the doctor tells the nurse.

What? It was the left knee! Is he mad?

"Kidding," he said. I was not amused by his childish wink.

The anesthesiologist was young and talkative. Reading my chart he asked, "Nicolo? Do you have a sister?"

"I have two."

"What are their names?"

"Maria and Giovanna."

"Maria! She went to Laval Catholic High School right?"

"Yes. So did I."

"Wow. I knew her. She was going out with Joe, right?"

"Yeah. She married him. Not to sound like a smart ass but I'm about to lose a knee here and my ass is exposed."

"Ha, ha. You're sister was pretty funny, too. Ok, here's how this is going to work. I need you to curl up and place your head between your knees. Whatever you do, don't move. It can cause spinal damage. Ok?"

"Got it."

I cracked. I looked back. I saw the needle. It was as big as a lobster. I fainted.

"I told you not to look back."

"I know. Sorry."

A nurse came over and held my head down. I was now injected.

"Pretty soon you won't feel a thing."

"How will I know?"

"You won't feel your penis," Dr.Seinfeld interjected.

"Yeah right"

Within minutes he asks, "So, can you contract your penis?"

I tried. Boy did I try. I even burst some capillaries. My eyes turned purple I strained so hard. For some reason my fear entertained the nursing staff.

I began to wonder what life would be like without the use of my penis. I secretly began to panic. Alternatively, I always dreamed of making love to a nurse on an operating table. Not today.

"Ok, Alessandro. You can watch the whole thing on the screen up above and to your right. Sit back and relax."

Just then he raised my leg. It didn't look like mine. It was orange and listless as he manipulated it however he saw fit. The iodine made it looked like road kill. I fainted.

"Are you going to be ok?"

"Yeah, no sweat."

"Ok," the doctor said unconvincingly.

Lying back on my elbows I was sure the worse was over. So I fainted twice. Big deal. Until….

I swear there was blood everywhere. Like that scene in The Shining where Danny sees the twin girls. A flood of blood buckets. The nurse handed the doctor a tiny square shaped cloth to apply on the incision. I fainted.

I could overhear the doctor say, "Give him a sedative."

It was just what the doctor ordered. I never felt so composed in my life. I don't remember much about the surgery but I do remember him pointing to the torn ligament. It looked like a torn Kleenex.

Soon the doctor proclaimed, "That's it. We're done."

A couple of weeks later I visited the doctor to check up on my wound for the first time. The knee felt extremely tight and my leg had been reduced to a mere twig-like limb. He began to remove the bandages. I felt woozy. Finally, he reached the knee. One look was all it took. I fainted.

My mother looked at me as she handed me a glass of water. "You're such a wuss."

It took months of rehab, but fixing the knee gave back my athletic life. I was active once again. Psychologically, I'll never be the same but there is no doubt that if one plans to lead an active life surgery is a necessity when it comes to the ACL.

When I tore my right knee16 years later it took me seconds to make my decision. On the operating table the anesthesiologist suggested an epidural. I chuckled and said no. I wanted to get out there with some dignity.

I may have even dreamt of that sweet girl as I frolicked with her on the beach.

Needless to say, I didn't faint.

Writers Come Forth! A Request and A New Challenge

2006-11-08T22:28:00.000-08:00

It seems that all of us have taken a bit of a hiatus. I really want to keep this going. A group such as this can prove very useful in improving your writing skills, and learning from others.

With that in mind, I would like to offer up my book to the group for critique. It is posted on another blog of mine: http://blackwhiteandshadesofgray.blogspot.com/

Chapter 1 is located here: http://blackwhiteandshadesofgray.blogspot.com/2006/01/revision-1-chapter-1-smudge.html

I am nearing the end of Revision 1, and have now added 5 new chapters, and completely reworked other sections.

I am beginning the query process, but have not yet submitted this. I want to get some serious feedback on it before doing that. So anything you can add to this would be greatly appreciated. Please don't pull your punches. If I need one between the eyes, swing away. I have very thick skinm so don't even think twice about hurting my feelings. :)

Now, onto the challenge:

*The genre is your choice
*Word length 300-1000 words
* Prompt 1: The scariest thing that ever happened to you, or
* Prompt 2: Your most perfect day

Guidelines:
* Use the prompt to generate an idea, then off you go. The result can stray as far from the actual event as you want it to. Maybe your scariest thing was seeing your neighbor in his boxers gathering his newspaper. Turn it into a fat-ugly scary monster story. :)
* I would prefer no profanity or vulgarity

Prize:
* I don't know yet... I still owe Jennifer for winning the last contest.

Deadline: December 31, 2006
Last time I didn't give very much time and was convinced to stretch it out. If that becomes necessary this time, so be it.

Go for it.

Saying hi and wondering where everyone is!

2006-10-20T10:31:00.000-07:00

Howdy. I am Domestic Goddess, sister to Cheeze.

I have been a lurking member of this blog for a while but haven't seen any activity. I would like to challenge someone to come up with a topic or idea to spur us and get some activity here.

A Short-Story.

2006-08-20T06:34:00.000-07:00

Hello all, been hammering away learning the trade. I'm slowly getting it. Hope you enjoy this. Feel free to pass your thoughts on. It's about 5 600 words.

exposrip.wordpress.com/2006/07/26/iglatikuk-the-interloping-urban-inuit/

Tip of the Week - Writer's Block

2006-08-19T22:29:00.000-07:00

I subscribe to Writer's Digest and was reading an article about several authors. They were asked questions regarding how they approach writing, and what they do in certain situations.

One author commented on what he does when he gets writers block, and I thought it was a good idea.

What he said that he does when he gets stuck, is to take some time away from the writing, and go back to earlier chapters and do some editing and revisions. Maybe today is not the day for you to have the grand inspiration for your new chapter. Maybe today is the day for you to polish some of your existing work.

I havent had a chance to try this yet, mainly because I have been on a roll lately. I think that it has merit though.

Happy Writing!

Dave

Tip of the Week - A revision trick

2006-08-09T21:28:00.000-07:00

I have been working very hard lately revising my book, and I accidentally discovered a good way to rewrite a difficult section.

I normally print off the section I am revising, let my pen barf on it, then type in the edits. A week ago, I was staring at a section that I really didn't like. The concept was good, but the writing wasn't. I tried fiddling with words and shuffled sentences, but shuffled crap is still crap.

What I ended up doing was setting the crap-fest aside, and with the concept only took to writing it again fresh. The result was a much better scene with a lot of brand new stuff. So far this technique has netted me three brand new chapters that a far and away better than the drivel I was trying to fix.

Sometimes it's better to level the outhouse instead of trying to turn it into a mansion.

The Shadow Knows

2006-07-30T23:17:00.000-07:00

Hi there

It has been far too long since I contributed to this blog. I hope we can keep it alive. It seems we have all taken the summer off.

Hopefully everyone is writing. I am working on revision 1 of my book Black, White and Shades of Gray. I have it posted at http://blackwhiteandshadesofgray.blogspot.com/

I am keeping it up to date with my latest revisions, and have recently added two brand new chapters. I decided to do a "show don't tell" and turned a single sentence into two chapters.

Although my writing time is very limited, lately it has been quite productive. Let me know how you are all doing. What are you working on? Anyone had any bites from a submission?

As always: HAPPY WRITING!

Dave

Checking In

2006-07-09T20:33:00.000-07:00

Well, it's been awhile since I've posted here; things have been quite hectic in my family. Just as an update, my first novel is finished. I'm working on the rewriting, editing, and proofing. I'm also looking for a publisher/agent of Christian suspense. If any of you have any connections, ideas, lists of reputable contacts, etc. please feel free to share them, as I am a total greenhorn in this area. I've also started my second novel, From the Dust of Rose Hill and was on a pretty good roll with it until life interrupted. Now it's time to get back to cranking out the pages.

I missed out on the short story competition--chickened out. I thought that I could not write about my childhood, even a fictional adaptation. But not being able to prompted me to explore my feelings, and now I'm thinking, yes, I really should go there. Perhaps this second novel will give opportunity to explore some of those areas. I have plenty of material. But my fear is that it will all turn out dark and maudlin. I really want to entertain, not depress. A part of me knows that it is possible to take these ugly scenes and make something beautiful of them. Fear is holding me back--the same fear that kept me from writing the first novel. And look, six months later, the first draft is complete. I'm sure it's not Pulitzer Prize material, but it's a novel. And of that I am right proud.

How are all your projects coming along? I trust everyone is having a delightful summer and a productive one. Don't forget to stop by here. You're missed when you're not around.

Writing Prompts

2006-06-03T10:06:00.000-07:00

Hello Folks,

After reading Sea's admission of fear, and then seeing how she rose to the challenge within her post, I felt emboldened enough to give it a whirl again myself "real" writer or not.

***

As a budding wordsmith who switched gears midstream and a conditioned loner, writers groups and writing community efforts were unheard of and as such are still new to me. Since discovering the writing world, I’ve joined, left, phased out or been ejected from several writing groups. I’ll never forget my first group; I think it was called critical writers, or something like that. I submitted what I thought was a brilliant piece of literature—an edited phone conversation entitled "proper phone etiquette" I felt it was a perfect example of the "show don't tell" rule that I kept encountering everywhere I turned.

Well let me tell you, I found out several things after that submission:

There was a rule about adult material. The conversation highlighted the phone sex epidemic I’d encountered while trying to transition from the “online meeting” to the phone then face-to-face routine of the online dating arena.
The main character was implausible. (Ummm … since I was the main character with an alias and things did go down as I stated … did that then mean I was UNBELIEVABLE?)
A few of the more sympathetic critters in the group took the time to explain to me that since I’d dropped them into the conversation midstream, they had no basis for aligning themselves with either character and as such, the great intent did nothing but annoy and/or ring untrue. Okay, now that I understood.
End result—I departed from that group with my tail tucked between my legs, so to speak, and realized that this writing thing just might not be as easy as I thought it was going to be, but that was alright—struggle I understood quite well.

I joined other groups and terms like daily prompts or writing prompts popped up (which I thought were silly). Why write something if I’ve no purpose for writing it? I know, I know—what can I say, I was green behind the ears, or is that wet around the gills? LOL.

Okay, so we can all agree that writing prompts are necessary, we may not like them but as with anything, practice makes, if not perfect—good. Some do daily prompts some do weekly—whatever the case, they are done.

***

Yesterday as I was leaving work, I was already ensconced in the passenger seat of a co-worker’s car, the seatbelt already fastened, when I realized that I’d left my degreasing fluid. One voice in my head said, "Ah leave it, it’s been there for two weeks, what’s another day?"

Then the other voice in my head said, "You said you were taking it home today, just go get it."

I asked my co-worker if she’d mind waiting and at her acquiescence jogged back into the building. As I passed the HR waiting area, my eyes lit upon some leftover sandwiches from a training session that I’d been invited to pack up and take home.

I continued around the corner and down the hall to my desk. I grabbed said degreaser and returned the way I came. As I came to the waiting area, one voice in my head said, “Why not grab a few sandwiches for your mom?”

Then the other voice in my head said, "She won’t eat those sandwiches, she’s watching her cholesterol."

Then I said to myself, heck, I’ll take a few for me, those tuna fish sandwiches were the bomb!

Aware that my co-worker was still waiting, I quickly found a chinette saucer, grabbed three of the prettily cubed tooth picked sandwiches, wrapped them in cellophane and darted out of the building.

***

Seated midway point on the bus, my head was reeling with sleep, but aware that sitting in an empty bus with my head lolling to one side as I drooled or snored would not be cute. So I mentally pried my eyelids open and tried to appear alert. Then one voice in my head said, “You’ve your Bible with you; why not continue listening to the tape you began a week ago?"

"Nah."

"Then why not read The 7 Habits of Highly Successful People?"

"Nah."

Then the other voice said, "You’ve got sandwiches, why not eat one?"

"On the bus?"

"The driver likes you, he won’t care."

So with one eye on the driver and the other on the bag in my lap, I retrieved one of the sandwiches and began chewing.

Three-quarters of the sandwich was gone when my peripheral vision caught a moving shadow outside my window. I turned my head fully to identify the shadow. It turned out to be a strapping black man. He wore a black shirt and black pants and appeared to be in his thirties. He was searching through the garbage bin right outside my window.

I knocked on the window to draw his attention, but he didn’t seem to hear me. To look at him, he didn’t appear to be the typical embodiment of a homeless person. There was no shopping cart full of belongings, no frayed sneakers with protruding toes—I wasn’t close enough to smell him so I knew not if the stench factor applied. He walked on past my window and out of sight. His being lost to my vision, served to galvanize me into action because I grabbed my purse, left my other bag on the bus and ran past the driver stating, "I’ll be right back" and bolted off the bus.

Upon racing off the bus, I stopped short—no jogging was necessary, he was right there; he’d just moved over a bit to phone booth and was in the middle of investigating a soda can under the phone when I timidly said to him, "Hello, are you hungry—I have some tuna fish sandwiches."

He looked at me and said, "Yes ma’am thanks."

Unsure when I’d graduated to ma’am, I said, “You’re welcome” and wished to myself that I’d also had a bottle of water.

I didn’t know his story, or how he’d come to the point of searching through the garbage for a meal, but just from observing him—it appeared to have been awhile because he’d lost the furtive “is anyone looking at me” demeanor one would associate with someone searching through the garbage. His attitude wasn’t defeated—per se, just matter of fact.

I wished I could do more—and I did: I prayed for him silently as I walked away and realized had I not heeded the voice urging me to stop and pick up those sandwiches, I’d have been unprepared for the encounter and left with a coulda shoulda feeling.

As I practice improving my writing with writing prompts, so I practice improving my service by heeding God prompts.

Have you practiced heeding a God prompt lately?

RIMSHOT PLEASE...

2006-05-17T19:11:00.000-07:00

Our second place goes to...

DIANE! WOO HOO!!!

Here is her piece entitled "Life is Just a Cakewalk!"

Life is Just a Cakewalk!
by Diane Viere

On a crisp, fall evening in October, our eight-year-old son came beaming through the front door, proudly holding a cake. It was an ordinary cake…you know the kind, triple-layered, creamy whipped frosting with decorative roses encircling the edges. He had been to a church party and won this ordinary cake at the Cakewalk. We set it at the center of our kitchen table and, soon, he was off to play with his more exciting toys.

Why did this ordinary cake stir such emotions within me? Why was I so overwhelmed with joy and happiness that he won this ordinary cake?

It had been many years earlier while in fifth grade that I first heard of Cakewalks. Fifth grade--Mr. Johnson--the best teacher, ever! In Mr. Johnson’s class, there always smiles and encouraging words. At home, things never seemed safe. In Mr. Johnson’s class, it was a certainty; we would learn and grow. At home, life was never certain. This was a special week in Mr. Johnson’s class. We were preparing the school gym for the Annual Roosevelt Elementary School Carnival to be held on Friday night. All of the proceeds would be used for our new gym equipment.

Daily, we would do our required class assignments and then rush to our carnival plans. We were excited and proud as we planned, decorated and made sure everything was in just the right place.

I was on the Cakewalk Committee. Each day we would make tickets, decorate the rope to encircle the cakewalk area, and cut out footprints from colorful construction paper to be placed on the floor for people to walk on while the music played. We were proud of the tablecloth we made from an artist roll of white paper, which would feature our original artwork and hang over the long lunchroom table. This is where we would display the prizes--the beautiful, donated cakes. By Thursday, we could hardly wait to see the cakes that would be delivered the next day. Friday would soon be here!

It was hard to sleep that Thursday night. Finally, as I faded dreamily away, I could hear the music on the phonograph spinning, as our carnival guests would walk the cakewalk. When the music stopped, the lucky winner on the special footprint would choose a cake. An ordinary cake. Maybe, just maybe, I would win one of those beautiful cakes. As I slept, I dreamed of how it would taste.

Stepping into the gym that Friday afternoon, I could not believe how beautiful the cakes were on that long table. I hardly noticed the tablecloth our committee had decorated with such care. They gym never looked so festive…and the Carnival was ready to begin.

My plan was to race home, do my homework and chores and then I would hurry back to our Cakewalk and buy a chance. My mom saved a dollar from her "ironing money" so that I could go to the carnival. I was determined to spend the entire dollar if I had to, just for a chance to bring home a beautiful cake.
Alcohol changed my chance that Friday afternoon. It didn’t matter to my Dad that we had proudly worked so hard all week long on that special school event. Some small thing had gone wrong in his day, and I wouldn’t be going to the carnival after all.

An ordinary day.

That Friday afternoon, I learned there are many footprints in our life. Some will make us stumble. Unlike a carnival cakewalk, the cakewalk of life is not always magical. There are storms. There are trials. There is hurt and there is pain. But there are also the prize footprints--the footprints of hope, of determination, of perseverance, of forgiveness and of love.

Just as the decorated rope circled the cakewalk that carnival night, a circle of life happened on that chilly evening in late October. Our son brought home an ordinary cake from a church carnival. To me, it was a cherished cake, a blessed reminder of the many prized footprints in the cakewalk of my life.

DRUMROLL PLEASE...

2006-05-16T23:36:00.000-07:00

And the Winner is...

DUN DUN DUN!

JENNIFER!! WOO HOO!!!

Her short story entitled "Haley's Justice" was a wonderful little interaction of a father and daughter. What I liked about it was that there was going to be a court proceeding of some sort that involved the young girl, but it was never spelled out. I gathered that it was going to be a custody hearing. By the end, you know that everything is going to work out just fine.

I liked it a lot.

So without further ado, here is "Haley's Justice" by Jennifer:

Haley’s Justice
By Jennifer (Architect by Day, Writer by Night)

"Daddy?" A little girl tugged on her Dad's arm. Her eyes were wide with curiosity at the statue before her.

"Daddy?" she said again, tugging a little harder.

"What is it Haley?"

"Why are her eyes covered?"

"Who?"

The girl lifted a finger and pointed to the statue standing tall in the lobby of the courthouse. "Her. She can't see Daddy. How can she help you if she can't see?"

The man knelt down next to his daughter and marveled once again at the inquisitive nature his daughter had. He couldn't lose her. She's what made his life bearable. "That's Justice. She's wearing a blindfold."

"But why?"

"She wears that so she makes sure she's fair to everyone. A lot of times people can't see past the differences we each have and are judgmental because they see only what's on the outside. Justice doesn't do that. She's fair."

"You mean she can't see if someone is a boy or a girl. Or if they're tall or short?" Haley asked.

Such a simplified version of a complex topic, he thought. He wish he could capture her innocence and share it with the world. "That's right. She can't see if we're black or white, if we're rich or poor. She listens to the facts and makes her judgements based on them."

"So it's her job to make fair decisions?"

"Yup. She isn't prejudice against anyone."

"That's what the jury is going to do?"

It came out more as a question. He smiled at her. He didn't know how else to reassure her. She was being so brave. She was a strong girl. She was his girl and they weren't going to take her. Not if he could help it.

"They're going to listen all the facts and make a decision without pre...predujuice?"

He smiled at her mispronunciation. "Prejudice sweetie, and yes that's what they'll do. Just tell the truth Haley.
You don't have to worry." He stood up and took her hand. "Ready?"

Haley looked a Justice again. "One second Daddy." She ran over to the statue and whispered something to her.

She came back and gave him a hug. "It's okay Daddy. I talked to her and she promised she wouldn't take her blindfold off. We can go in now. I'm ready."

The Contest...

2006-05-16T18:43:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone, I just wanted to update you on the contest. The extendo-deadline passed yesterday with four submissions.

Those in the running are:
Diane
Lisa
Jennifer
and Alessandro

My own entry fell short, DOH!

Over the next couple days, the entries will be evaluated and a winner chosen.

Jill posted first and second place for her contest, but I am thinking that it would be nice to post every0ne's efforts this time.

Jennifer's first attempt grew and grew, and announced that it wants to be a novel, not a short story. I think that is excellent.

So stay tuned, and I will announce the winners, and post the entries.

Thanks for the great response. It was great to see all the enthusiasm. I know several of you mentioned that you would like to participate, but life and circumstances were in the way.

Remember this is an open forum, so if any of you have an idea for a story trigger, please share it.

Happy Writing!

Dave

Maybe Later

2006-05-14T10:51:00.000-07:00

I've been putting off writing that fictionalized version of a childhood event. After much soul searching, I've come to the conclusion that my fiction is about me getting as far removed from myself as possible. When discussing my work in progress with my sisters yesterday, one commented to another, "She lives in a fantasy world." And though I felt a little wounded by the statement, I replied, "All good writers do."

Perhaps there are some great stories begging to emerge from my childhood. It was a mixed bag of blessing and horror. I came from a dysfunctional family. The dysfunction arising when my father's free spirited, compulsive, addictive personality melded with my mom's, which was solid, traditional, and disciplined. I have both the fairytale childhood and the nightmare childhood. When my father was sober, my life was a Norman Rockwell painting. When he was not, it was hell. I have spent many years in trying to put pieces of my past behind me. I have forgiven him many trespasses and hurts. Seldom do I dredge up the painful things that shaped my cynical views of life. Lately I have tried to focus on the beautiful heritage that was left by my mom. You can ready my tribute to her here.

I have tried to imagine a scenario from my childhood that I could adapt into a short story. Inevitably the pain grips me, and I am rendered useless for writing. It doesn't matter if I try to think of the happier times, because with the memory of the happy days comes the knowledge that my parents are gone. I am an orphan. I no longer have the luxury of having either of them in my life. At this moment, my chest is pounding with anxiety as I finally remind myself to breathe. I exhale in a long, deep sigh. All that was good is gone. All that was bad is gone. For now I must rest content to build my stories from worlds a million miles away. For right now, Dave, I find my childhood to be just a tad to close to home.

"Real" Writers

2006-04-25T09:29:00.000-07:00

I have a confession. Many, many months ago Dave graciously invited me to become a member of this blog. I'm sure no one really knows that given the fact that I have never written a post here. The thought has crossed my mind several times, especially when I repeatedly open up my blogging dashboard and see the blog sitting there. It always fills me with a twinge of guilt when I pass by day after day and tell myself I'll do it another time.

I realized this morning the reason has simply been intimidation, fear if you will. I write a lot about fear and believe it is the single biggest barrier we face to realizing our full potential. So I am biting the bullet so to speak, and am writing a first post here. Perhaps you are asking why it is I am fearful? Because I have convinced myself I am not a "real" writer and have no business nosing around in a writer's blog.

Then I started thinking (yes, that dreaded thinking that gets me into trouble time and time again). What is a "real" writer? Does a "real" writer write fiction? Poetry? Nonfiction? Children's books? Does a "real" writer flawlessly execute the rules of grammar and create sentences that would make any college professor grin from ear to ear? Does a "real" writer have a vocabulary that creates music with their words and impresses readers with the breadth of their knowledge? Does a "real" writer write sentences that are complex and deep, conveying their stellar intellect with stunning clarity? Does a "real" writer have to be published?

I suppose all of these things do make "real" writers. But what of those who simply write because it is what they love to do most in the world? What of those whose writing may never be deemed publication material by those who have been given the power to make those decisions? What about those who can sit and write for hours and feel as though it has been merely minutes because the mere act of writing has brought them to a place of ecstatic engagement? What about those who can't wait for the next opportunity to sit and write, and practically ignore everything else they "should" be doing because their desire is to simply write? Are those individuals not "real" writers? What exactly makes a "real" writer? Who deserves the title and who gets to decide?

I guess I had already decided that I wasn't a "real" writer, and so nothing I could produce from the stream of my consciousness could ever be worth reading by anyone else. In fact, my blog is called Seawave's Soliloquy because I never actually believed anyone would want to read what I write.

So anyway, I have overcome the fear and have written a post here. Nothing particularly profound or helpful, but I do thank you for your patience and indulgence. Let me just give a final note of encouragement to those I have seen post here. In my eyes, each of you is a "real" writer.

Question for You

2006-04-24T20:36:00.000-07:00

If any of you write for the Christian market, I pose an interesting question on my blog in the post entitled, "Fencing God In--Or out?" that I would appreciate feedback on. It raises the question of how much or how little you can portray violence or sex and still be able to market your book in the Christian markets as opposed to mainstreaming it.

I have been having a lively email discussion with a Christian publisher who informs me that the guidelines are strict in this area. The subjects aren't taboo, however they require very delicate treatment because Christian booksellers do not want to risk offending readers. This is the reality of marketing.

I raise the questions because of the subject matter of my novel: teenage girl with unwanted pregnancy seeks abortion, gets abducted, and launches a violent attack to gain her freedom. Not a frilly, lacy, sweet story that your Grandma might pick up. But it might be one that your young niece, searching for truth and guidance, might. I'm struggling with the line in the sand. I don't want to water down my book or my mesage...or straddle the fence in order to sell books.

What are your thoughts? If you have time, run on over to my blog and check out my post and leave me some feedback. It would be greatly appreciated.

P.S. I have an idea for the short story, but I guess I better get my butt in gear and get started. How many participants do we have? And just how far behind am I?

At long last

2006-04-23T20:38:00.001-07:00

Hey, it only took three months, but I have finally posted my revision of chapter 2 of my book "Black, White, and Shades of Gray" on that blog.

I still plan to work it over a few more times, then dive into chapter 3. It is much stronger than the original, but it still has room to grow.

In the first draft, Patrick and Smudge seemed to hit it off grandly right away. In this revision, Smudge is a little slower in trusting Patrick, and is somewhat belligerent. I felt that although they become friends, that the start should be a little more tense.

I have made a few small adjustments to chapter 1 which I have posted as well.

So please, give it a read. Let me know, good, bad, or indifferent, what you think. If there are suggestions, questions, glaring issues, whatever... I would like to hear them.

Happy Reading! (I hope :) )

Dave

At long last

2006-04-23T20:38:00.000-07:00

Who's Up for a Friendly Competition?

2006-03-26T19:35:00.000-08:00

Hello all:

I have been thinking that it would be fun to have our own little contest here in Mistland.

Jill set us the task of a Dr. Seuss piece, the reward was a signed copy of her book.

As I am not yet published, I can't offer that, but I thought a competition nonetheless.

GENRE: Your choice, but FICTION

LENGTH: 300 - 1200 words

DUE DATE: April 30, 2006, midnight, Arizona time. By then, that will be equivelant to Pacific time.

TOPIC: Fictionalize one of your most memorable childhood events.

RULES: Keep it clean

As the genre is your choice, the topic becomes a launching pad with a very powerful spring. The childhood memory is simply a trigger to write any kind of short story you want. The goal is to get your creative juices flowing.

Here is your chance to become the fairy princess you always wanted to be, (for the women... sheesh!) or the knight in shining armor.

There will be a prize for the winner, but that will be a surprise. The reward will be appropriate to the winning story.

Anyone can enter

Spread the news, and GAME ON!

Happy writing!

Contact me directly with questions, concerns, donations, and free pizza at: dhanks@righttrak.net

Writing Contest

2006-03-15T21:16:00.000-08:00

Hello everyone:

I just entered this writing competition for Writers Digest. I entered a slightly revised version of my "The Sibling War" short story.

You can enter here http://www.writersdigest.com/contests/annual/75th/

The entry fee is only $15 for your first piece, and $10 for every other one you enter.

Give it a go!

GRAND PRIZE: $3,000 cash and an all-expense paid trip to New York City to meet with editors or agents. Writer's Digest will fly you and a guest to The Big Apple, where you'll spend three days and two nights in the publishing capital of the world. While you're there, a Writer's Digest editor will escort you to meet and share your work with four editors or agents! Plus, you'll receive a free Diamond Publishing Package from Outskirts Press.

Entry Deadline: Monday, May 15, 2006.

Happy Writing!

Man Won't Fly For 50 Years

2006-03-12T12:32:00.000-08:00

Dave Hanks
January 12, 2002
800 Words

Orville and Wilbur Wright were ordinary men with an extraordinary desire. They wanted to fly.
"If God had wanted man to fly, He would have given him wings," doubters scoffed. Others just thought they were lunatics. Wilbur wrote to Samuel Langley the director of the Smithsonian Institution who was known to be working on a flying machine, "I believe that simple flight at least is possible to man. I am an enthusiast, but not a crank. I wish to avail myself of all that is already known and then if possible add my bit."

Orville and Wilbur went right to work on developing their own flying machines. They tested many of their theories and designs on gliders, but what they really wanted was a self-powered flying machine.

Wilbur watched how birds used their wings, and applied that information to his own wing design. Together, he and Orville built a small wind tunnel to test many different shapes that were scale models of the actual wings that would eventually be on the flying machine. At length, they found a design that would be able to lift the aircraft in a strong wind.

In order to turn their glider into a true flying machine, however, it would have to be able to make itself fly. This meant that it needed a motor for power and a way to harness that power to propel itself forward.

Unable to find a suitable motor that would be strong enough for their machine, Orville and Wilbur designed and built their own motor and propellers with the help of a mechanic at their bike shop.

Finally, in mid December 1903, the Wright Brothers took their "flyer," as they had come to call it, to Kitty Hawk, North Carolina where they had previously tested their gliders. Wilbur won a coin toss to see which of them would get to fly first. His attempt was unsuccessful and caused minor damage to the left wing, one of the skids, and several other parts, which took them two days to repair.

The morning of December 17, 1903 was freezing. Ice had formed over puddles in their camp. The brothers and several men from the nearby Kill Devil Hill Life Saving Station, who were assisting them, had to warm themselves frequently over a fire they had built in a large can. The "biting cold" wind as Orville labeled it, was strong, almost too strong for them to perform their test. Orville later recalled that he was amazed that they dared to test the flyer under such harsh conditions.

The flyer rested on a 60 foot long monorail track whose purpose was to guide the flyer into the wind in a straight course. A wire held the machine in place until the test was ready. Orville was to be the pilot this time since Wilbur had already taken his turn. He ran the motor for a minute or two to make sure it was warm, released the wire, and the flyer began to move forward. It moved more slowly than when Wilbur had made his attempt. This time it was facing a 27 mile-an-hour wind. Wilbur ran along side holding the wing tip to keep it balanced. He stayed by the side until it lifted from the track after traveling 40 feet. Orville Wright was in the air and flying.

He struggled to keep the flyer level in the unsteady wind, as he was not yet used to the controls. It climbed and fell sharply, then climbed again. After about 100 feet, it dived, and Orville was not able to pull it up in time to avoid landing. The 12 second, 120 foot long flight was over. The first manned flight of a self-powered craft had flown without losing speed, and landed on ground as high as where it had begun. Orville calculated that on a calm day, such as with Wilbur’s initial attempt, this would have been equivalent to a 540 foot long flight.

This was an amazing accomplishment from two ordinary men, one of whom had once stated, "The boys of the Wright family are all lacking in determination and push. None of us has, as yet, made particular use of the talent in which he excels other men."

****
A note: 2 years before the flight, Wilbur said, "Man wont fly for 50 years"... thus the title

Legacy of Time

2006-02-26T22:16:00.000-08:00

Hello. I wrote this a while ago. And yes, it does have a 'Field of Dreams' imprint. However, the idea came well before the movie. It is said that the Old Montreal Forum was haunted with past folkloric legends. So I took a stab at a fictional story about it. I'm more of an essayist however feel free to offer some thoughts and - gulp- criticism. Hope it's not too long - if you're a hockey fan it shouldn't be if I did my job right! It's about 1 100 words.

Legacy of Time

We remember the ghosts that lived in the Old Forum. They had migrated from the previous one into the newer modern version. They were carrying a torch of formidability for posterity. It was a place where legends were born and majestic teams ruled in the spirit of what was the grandeur of Rome. Effortlessly, artistically and powerfully they dazzled not only their fans and opponents alike but themselves too.

The ghosts made their presence felt one last time in a game between the great Montreal Canadiens, Les Habitants, Nos Glorieux, and Toronto Maple Leafs in what was the last year before they tore down the old rink. One gets the sense that the ghosts were hanging around on this somber day. It is as if they had no intentions of moving again. They did not like what they foresaw down the road. Some were fixing the banners of all those Stanley Cups, others were playing around on the ice chasing each other, still others sat back and listened to the play-by-play of a game between the Red Wings and Bruins broadcast on the radio. "Hey, do you think Terry Sawchuk, Eddie Shore, and Dit Clapper are at the Gardens tonight?" shouted Bill Durnan a standout goalie for the Habs. "Nah" joked Aurel Joliat; "They want to stay here! Same for

The present Habs were a mere shadow of their former selves. They were a team that was mismanaged and with it its tradition of excellence. Vision was lost to designers of this once majestic franchise. No one is really sure how this was allowed to happen. Some believe that the Habs will rise again one day. After all, the dynasties of the New York Yankees and Green Bay Packers were able to do it. Why shouldn't Les Canadiens complete the Triumvirate? Maybe one day the Boston Celtics will join in. It will be a return to a Golden Age.

On this typically cold night, Montreal is losing 4-1 heading into the third period to their archrivals Toronto Maple Leafs. "Where are these fricken ghosts" one player on the bench asks. Peetie, a strong and effective player for the Habs, tells him there are no ghosts. "Get a grip and play hard" he continues. "Just get the puck to J-P."

In the stands, a young fan feels like his life is coming apart. "Will the ghosts come through, Dad?" he asks. "They always do son." The father unconvincingly tells his son.

Howie Morenz, the Stratford Streak, Montreal's first legend, overhears the conversation on the bench. He had spent most of the game taping his hockey sticks and wasn't much interested in the game. Suddenly he wasn't so indifferent. He summons the lads for one more round of magic.

"What do you say boys?" Morenz proposes. Out of the clear, The Rocket passes by and tells them about the boy who believed in them. "I'm in" he decides. The others followed.

On his next shift, Peetie gets off the bench and scores an incredible goal. 4-2. He came sweeping in from the left side and lifted a backhand shot with deadly accuracy into the top of the net. Peetie was a hustler not known for such flair. Even the French players were impressed. "If Peetie could score like dis evry game, hostie we'd beat all de teams all de time" quipped Jean-Paul with an ear to ear smile, their leading scorer. The coach comes over "What the hell got into you? Good job."

Even Peetie wondered. "Lucky shot" he murmurs to himself. He goes down to tighten his skate. As Peetie looks up he sees something flash by. He nudges his teammate. "Did you see that?" The team mate responds "See what?" Peetie could have sworn he saw #7 fly by.

The Habs are playing uncharacteristically with marvel and style. Their skating reminds some in the stands of the old Habs. One fan shouts, "Who do you guys think you are? The Second Coming of '56 and '78?" Jean-Paul, at that moment, breaks between two Leaf defensemen and scores. They look back haplessly and amazement as they look at each other realizing that assigning blame was futile. 4-3 with 4 minutes to go. Jean-Paul shakes his head at an image he thinks he just saw. "#9? Nah."

No one ever thought that Mario would be the next one to tie this game up. He did. 4-4. He could have sworn he saw #2 flash before he scored. The energy in the Forum is electric. If one could read body language, the Leafs had resigned themselves to defeat. One player remarked later "It was as if the ghosts came down and played the game."

In the broadcast booth Danny Gallivan the sweet voice of Montreal Canadiens radio play-by-play calls the game as he winks to Dick Irvin who somehow was able to see him.
Behind the bench stands a stoic Toe Blake. He glances over the coach and his notes and ensures what will work and what will not. The ghosts have arrived.

The game is not won. There are 33 seconds left in this critical game. Peetie bolts down the wing taking whacks and pushing off opponents and out of the corner of his eye he sees all past Montreal Canadien legends around him, he let's a ferocious slap shot go. He scores! Habs lead 5-4. Doug Harvey taps Peetie's knees with his stick. Peetie was too much in the moment and did not realize what had just happened. He felt the tap and figured it was his linemate Mario.

The proud Toronto Maple Leafs, however, will not leave without a fight. One of their fine players fakes the goalie with 3 seconds to go...What a save! Habs win! Behind the net, one could have sworn Vezina and Plante were chuckling.

With the arena emptying out the young boy and his father in the stands wait a little while longer absorbing the victory. "Dad" asks the young boy. "Yes, Steve" the father replies. "Dad, look on the ice." The father looks down and squints lightly. Father and son, together they got a glimpse of the ghosts whom were congratulating each other. While they sat and watched in utter amazement, one of the ghosts, in a tuque and a woolen Habs jersey, winks, smiles, skates away and vanishes.

Incredible. Later, as the lights were shutting down, the ghosts hugged one another and skated off the ice for the last time. They were tired. They swore they would come back one day. Maybe #23 could pick up and assemble together the fragmented pieces fallen to the ground that was once a symbol of excellence that transcended sports. The illustrious 'C' may indeed shine one day like the beacon Dante saw when he left the Inferno with Virgil.

Tip of the Week - Writing Tools

2006-02-17T18:59:00.000-08:00

Hello all:

What do I mean by writing tools? Well, several things really. Besides the obvious things such as a computer or pen and paper, there are some things a writer should not be without:

1) a brain...

okay

1) An up-to-date dictionary
2) Roget's Thesaurus
3) Notebook
4) Books from your writing genre
5) Reference books
6) Instructional material

Let's take a closer look at each one:

1) An up-to-date dictionary. This is must as a writing tool. Not only will it help with definitions, but can give you ideas from the definition there. If you are like me, you read other words on the page. Occasionally you find one you haven't used in awhile, or have never heard of. Try finding new woreds to work into your story, but don't over do it. The perfunctory effervescense of the undulating frog bump stew...

2) A thesaurus: Don't leave home without it! Even if you think you are a master of the English language and know its every nuance and subtlety, there is usually a better word or phrase to replace ones written in your first few drafts. After awhile, you can feel when a word doesn't have the write punch or is too weak. Don't fret, simply pick up your thesaurus and find a better word.

3) A notebook: Don't leave home without it! :) I have a cheap spiral bound notebook that you can find in any office supply or grocery store. I take mine to work with me, and write during lunch. I sit at the lone table in a makeshift breakroom, where colleagues pass frequently and ask me questions like am I writing my life story, or am I documenting my days there at work, etc. Lately, several people have asked if I am writing a book, and they are surprised to find out I am. So anyway... I use the notebook both for writing, and making notes, and jotting down new ideas. For the fun of it, I date each writing session. I do that for a couple reasons: a) For the vain hope that someday should I become famous, this little notebook may become worth something and having the date on it will make it more interesting *cough cough*, b) If someone should plagiarise my work, I can prove when I wrote it *hack wheeze*, c) now back to earth... I like to do it because it helps me track my progress. The dates allow me to see how I have changed from whenever the stuff I am revisiting was written.

4) Books from your genre: This one should be self-explanatory... Know your genre! Know your competition! Know you can match or beat your competition! Learn the good from them, learn from their mistakes.

5) Reference books or media are an invaluable source for facts and background research for your work. My short story posted several months ago was the result of a ton of research. The first draft showed way too much of the stuff I had learned. By the time it reached the version that I recently submitted, most of the facts and details from the first draft had been removed, but the flavor they gave helped set the stage for my story and give it a better sense of realism.

6) Books on how to write, edit, publish, and market are an excellent way to make sure you do everything the right way. Dont shoot blindly into the night... Know your path, and follow it to success. Please let us know about books that you have found useful.

Happy Writing!

P.S.
Dee: I am glad you have come out of the shadows and have begun to post.
Everyone: It isn't a requirement to give tips and suggestions to post. Please feel free to put some of your writing in here for the rest of us to read. In a writing group such as this, comments from your colleagues can be a very good thing. You don't have to use everything that is said, but there will undoubtedly be useful things in what people have to say. Jill and I have been trading chapters of our current works in progress, and it is interesting how helpful even one person can be in spotting flaws, offering suggestions, etc. Please contribute, it will not only benefit you, but will help all of us better our own writing skills.

Testimonial

2006-02-17T15:17:00.000-08:00

Lisa has some great advice in her recent post about joining writer's groups. She mentions how harsh and brutal some critiques can be and how sensitive we as writers can be over our "babies." This has been one of the hardest parts of me spreading my wings and learning to fly as a writer. I just wanted to share with you what has happened to me in the last six months.

I have been writing for my own pleasure since 9th grade. I made high marks in English and Literature because I was fascinated with the written word. I read every book that crossed my path, no matter what genre. I would write poetry and essays and lock them away in a metal box in my room to keep my sisters out of my private works. For years, the box stayed locked, although growing quite full. Two journals became three, then four, then six. Still it remained locked and out of sight. I don't know why I feared the opinions of my family. I was shy and insecure. There were no huge secrets inside, yet the mystery intrigued them for many years.

I found myself unemployed in September of last year. Forty was fast approaching. It was time to reevaluate my dreams and goals. It was now or never. I unlocked the box and began rewriting and submitting. I joined writer groups. I began blogging. And I found groups of people that were just like me. No longer am I the odd man out. I have colleagues that struggle with the same issues I face. I have people who have traveled farther down the road and can inspire me with their journey. It is an awesome feeling to finally be able to express yourself openly. And, as I posted in someone's blog just today, no one can tell me that I am not a writer. I am self-published on the world wide web! I am a writer--albeit, a starving artist, but hey, welcome to my world. I have finally learned to celebrate the gifts the good Lord gave me. I hope you're enjoying yours as much as I am mine.

Thanks for being here.

Poll

2006-02-16T04:08:00.000-08:00

Hello and Good Morning,

I'm stepping out of the shadows to make my first post. Not one to intimidate easily, I will admit that I have not posted before. Why? Well, I look at the other posts and ask myself... ummm... what tips do you have? The resounding answer every time has been... ummm... I dunno?

Nevertheless, I have just completed a great ride of self-publishng my first blook (book based on a blog) and I am doing, as Dave suggested, revisions, revisions and more revisions before I officially release it to the public on March 15th:

During this time, I have learned as much about myself as about the publishing process, picked up a few resources and ideas here and there that I'd be happy to share. But before I do so, to the purpose of this post: The Poll

Name: Dee Stafford, Pen Name: D.S. White (I know, I know... huge departure... LOL).

Book writers: What is your genre?

Creative Non-Fiction, Young Adult Fiction and Adult Fiction.
Other writers: What are you pursuing?

What is your current WIP?

Two semi-completed short stories

1 Creative Non-Fiction Anthology

1 Young Adult Fiction book

2 Adult Fiction books, and

A greeting card line.

What steps, if any, have you taken toward publication?

What do you need the MOST from this community?

What do you feel you have to OFFER?

Nightsounds - An attempt at a sonnet

2006-02-06T04:03:00.000-08:00

Past midnight hour, when most distractions die,
A brave new phonic world, unheard of, blooms
As if it were but delicate remnant fumes
From a blaze that charred the noise of the day gone by.
A brave new world of subtle sounds that try
To grow from one of night-time's many wombs;
And ere the morrow sends them to their tombs,
To steadily claim their share of our sky.
Obscurity! Relentless sonic haze!
Distant dissonance! Stubborn nightsounds!
Desist! I am a creature of day's light;
They rob me of my rest, your evil ways!
For your very existence confounds
The hoax that is the silence of the night.

-Srijan

Tip of the last several weeks: Revising Your Manuscript

2006-02-04T10:04:00.001-08:00

REVISE, REVISE, THEN GO BACK AND DO IT AGAIN! When you are done with that, rinse and repeat!

Please please please do not be one of those writers that thinks the first draft is also the final draft. There is no more sure-fire to NEVER get published. Even the greats get edited, even the greats do revisions. So as newcomers to the novelsphere, it goes without saying that there is room for improvement.

As noted in a recent post, I have completed the first draft of my first novel. Although it has some very good sections, there are a lot which aren't that great. Several members of this community have pointed out many weaknesses with the opening section.

I know there is a lot of work and revising to be done before I will even consider moving toward an attempt at getting it published.

Good, isnt good enough. Real good isnt good enough. Great is getting there. Superb is when you can start thinking about getting published.

Tips I found online mixed with some of my own:

By the time you've read and reread your work ten or twenty times, it can become too familiar to you, making it next to impossible to flush out mistakes and recognize areas that could be reworked. Each time through seems to accomplish less than the one before.

Here are several tips to help make your revisions more productive. Take a piece of paper and list the problems you hope to discover and correct. Your list could look something like this:

1. Look for the deadwood, the unnecessary bits that don't move your story forward.

2. Check the first paragraph of each chapter for "hooks." Does your paragraph pull the reader in?

3. Check the end of each chapter for "cliffhangers." (I call this the Dun dun dun ending. Will Jill survive the rampaging loony on the Battlements? Will Lisa really find her lost puppy Peppy? Tune into the next chapter to find out!) I love to end my chapters with a great "oh crap" moment, or by dropping some sort of bombshell. This kind of thing gets the reader flipping fast to the next chapter.

4. Examine each page for balance between dialogue, action, introspection and description.

5. Find places to build in more character traits.

6. Look for inconsistencies. One place the temperature is hot, where a section shortly thereafter says that it is cold. I actually caught that one in my book.

7. Look for repetition, words repeated too often, too close to each other, repetetive phrases, words that are repeated too often, and repetition.

8. Check your dialogue tags. Eliminate the expression ridden tags, and replace them with "said". ie "Your advice stinks," Dee spat. These types of tags draw attention to themselves, where the dialogue and body language should be expressing the emotion. Always always whack any adjectives after 'said'. They weaken your writing. For example: "I let my lame dialogue tag adjectives express how I am feeling rather than show it through my actions and the words I speak," Dave said lamely. "Oh, that is too bad," Jill said disgustedly. "I don't know... I like doing that," Lisa said swayingly. You get the idea.

9. Check for overuse of words that end with -ing or -ly. Walking happily down the undulating spring blossoming hill, I sing and sing like the thing in Dr. Seuss' lovely book. "How lovely," I said lovingly. <---- both in one word, and as one of the dialogue tags to whack. he he he
Once this is pointed out to you, read through your current work. The -ing words will stand up and pop you up side the head. Buh-BAP!

10. Revisit your dialogue tags. This time make sure that they follow the form "Speaker said" instead of "said Speaker". For example: "What great advice," Jill said. Instead of : "You are loony," said Lisa.

11. Eliminate emphasis on words. For example "I THOUGHT I told you to clean UP this room, and VACUUM this filthy carpet!" Assume that your reader (or victim) is intelligent and can apply their own voice inflections. These should also stand up and cuff you a good one. The same goes for italics. "I thought I told you to clean up..." Although a person may actually emphasize words like that, don't force your own inflection down the readers eyes.

11. Find typos and grammatical errors. Always use a spell checker. Check for common grammatical errors. For example. Dave and Erica looked down the street and seen a monkey shoot out a window.

*Each time you sit down to reread your manuscript, choose one point from the list to look for; ignore everything else. Every rereading needs to accomplish a specific task. Have a set goal in mind each time you start. Know what it is you plan to achieve, and your revision time will accomplish more.

Happy Writing!

CRITICAL MESSAGE

2006-02-01T09:10:00.000-08:00

Initially, I did not mean to post this message here. The message was meant for my personal blog. When I went to delete it, however, something in my spirit prompted me to leave it. So for what it's worth, here is my message. I will try to refrain from posting non-writing posts in the future. Thanks.

The following email was sent to me by a relative. I am not sure where she obtained her information, but I can tell you from personal experience it is accurate with one exception. Paget's disease is not a new finding. My mother died from it in 2001. It is a rare cancer. All the symptoms described in this article happened to my mother. This could be her story, in fact. Please take any changes in your breast seriously. If you are a male and reading this, please forward to your female loved ones. Please, please don't hesitate to get mammograms and second opinions. If you have any questions regarding this, please write me. It is a very real disease. The good news is it has a very high cure success rate if found early. Thanks for reading. Have a blessed day.

________________________________________________________________

New kind of Breast Cancer - DO NOT DELETEPlease forward to all of the women in your lives. Mothers, daughters,sisters, aunts, friends, etc.In November, a rare kind of breast cancer was found!A lady developed a rash on her breast, similar to that of young mothers who are nursing. Because her mammogram had been clear, the doctor treated her with antibiotics for infections. After 2 rounds, it continued to get worse, so her doctor sent her for another mammogram. This time it showed a mass. A biopsy found a fast growing malignancy. Chemo was started in order to shrink the growth; then a mastectomy was performed; then a full round of Chemo; then radiation. After about 9months of intense treatment, she was given a clean bill of health. She had one year of living each day to its fullest!Then the cancer returned to the liver area. She took 4 treatments and decided that she wanted quality of life, not the after effects of Chemo. She had 5 great months and she planned each detail of the final days. After a few days of needing morphine, she died.She left this message to be delivered to women everywhere: Women, PLEASE be alert to anything that is not normal, and be persistent in getting help as soon as possible. Paget's Disease: This is a rare form of breast cancer, and is on the outside of the breast, on the nipple and aureole. It appeared as a rash, which later became a lesion with a crusty outer edge. I would not have ever suspected it to be breast cancer but it was. My nipple never seemed any different to me, but the rash bothered me, so I went to the doctor for that. Sometimes, it itched and was sore, but other than that it didn't bother me. It was just ugly and a nuisance, and could not be cleared up with all the creams prescribed by my doctor and dermatologist for the dermatitis on my eyes just prior to this outbreak. They seemed a little concerned but did not warn me it could be cancerous. Now, I suspect not many women out there know a lesion or rash on the nipple or aureole can be breast cancer. Mine started out as a single red pimple on the aureole. One of the biggest problems with Paget's disease of the nipple is that thesymptoms appear to be harmless. It is frequently thought to be a skin inflammation or infection, leading to unfortunate delays in detection and care.What are the symptoms?1. A persistent redness, oozing, and crusting of your nipple causing it to itch and burn. (As I stated, mine did not itch or burn much, and had no oozing I was aware of, but it did have a crust along the outer edge on one side.)2. A sore on your nipple that will not heal. (Mine was on the aureole area with a whitish thick looking area in center of nipple).3. Usually only one nipple is effected.How is it diagnosed? Your doctor will do a physical exam and should suggest having a mammogram of both breasts, done immediately. Even though the redness, oozing and crusting closely resemble dermatitis (inflammation of the skin), your doctor should suspect cancer if the sore is only on one breast. Your doctor should order a biopsy of your sore to confirm what is going on.This message should be taken seriously and passed on to as many of your relatives and friends as possible; it could save someone's life.My breast cancer has spread and metastasized to my bones after receiving mega doses of chemotherapy, 28 treatments of radiation and taking Tamaxofin. If this had been diagnosed as breast cancer in the beginning, perhaps it would not have spread...TO ALL READERS:This is sad as women are not aware of Paget's disease. If, by passing this around on the e-mail, we can make others aware of it and its potential danger, we are helping women everywhere.Please, if you can, take a moment to forward this message to as many people as possible, especially to your family and friends. It only takes a moment, yet the results could save a life.

Revision 1 of Chapter 1 is complete

2006-01-27T22:35:00.000-08:00

Fellow writers:

After many revision passes, I have decided to post my new version of chapter 1 of my book: Black, White and Shades of Gray.

It pulled in part of the original chapter 2, and has a lot of new material. PLEASE feel free to make comments, bleed on it, point out flaws (I found several during revision), etc.

You won't hurt my feelings if you offer criticism, constructive or otherwise. An honest critique is much more beneficial than a simple "I like it."

You can read at your leisure, but please don't feel pressured to do so.

The post is here:http://blackwhiteandshadesofgray.blogspot.com/

Thanks and Happy Writing!

Dave

Waving Hello, and Let's Take a Poll

2006-01-26T16:49:00.000-08:00

Hellooooooo!!

I haven't said much since dear Dave invited me here. In fact, this is my first "real" post.

Hello to everyone! It's so wonderful to have a community of writers. So maybe we'd better get about the business of "having a community."

Here's my idea (please hold your applause until the end):

Answer this post with the following information about yourself:

1. Name or Pen Name
2. Book writers: What is your genre?
3. Other writers: What are you pursuing? (e.g. short stories, magazine articles, etc.)
4. What is your current WIP?
5. What steps, if any, have you taken toward publication?
6. What do you need the MOST from this community?
7. What do you feel you have to OFFER?

I do hope everyone will participate! This blog has so much potential.

The Veil of Youth

2006-01-24T08:19:00.000-08:00

"Mommy, I think Horatio is dead." My daughter was standing in the kitchen holding the small green fish net in one hand.

"He’s floating on his back up top," she said, "and when I touched him he didn’t move."
So it had finally happened.

Horatio had been won in a ring toss game when the carnival came through town. Was it two months ago, or three? It didn’t really matter, because the fish had been with them long enough for both of the children to get attached.

"Does your brother know?" I asked. She shook her head.

Peggy was older and understood how the death of pets worked. She had lost a hamster already in her young life. Scott, however, had never even HAD a pet before he got Horatio. I wasn’t sure how he would handle it.

"So," I said to Peggy. "We have two choices. We can flush Horatio down the potty and tell Scott that he ran away...."

"Or," Peggy asked, trying to sound serious and not smile.

"Or, we can tell Scott that Horatio died, then have a little funeral for him."
"Funeral," Peggy said.

And it was decided.

I called Scott in from outside where he had been examining the trees in the back yard, trying to find one good for a tree-house.

He took Horatio’s death in stride.

He cried, like children will, but he seemed excited about the prospect of a burial. It was something NEW and NEW, in his 6 year old mind, meant FUN.

He rushed off to get an old cigar style crayon box. He put some of the rocks from Horatio’s tank in it, then Horatio, and he picked a spot in the garden, close to the juvenile tomato plants, to burry him.

We each said a few words over him.

"Horatio was a good fish." I said. "I knew it just as soon as the lady handed him to us at the carnival. And he didn’t smell bad or make messes like some animals do. I’ll miss him."

Peggy said, "I remember when we first put him in the fish tank, and he got stuck against the filter. He flapped and flapped so hard and it was scary, but it was funny to because he looked so silly."

When it was Scott’s turn he stood for a long time looking down at the lump of dirt that used to be his fish.

"Bye-bye Horatio," he said then looked up at me and said, "Mommy, can we get a puppy dog now?"

It must be nice to be so young, when grief can be so fleeting.

Bad Dialogue...what NOT to do

2006-01-19T04:53:00.000-08:00

Okay...so I posted this on my Blog, but I thought I'd share it here too.

I LOVE dialogue. It's my favorite part of writing, it's a JOY for my to write...so when I pick up a book with bad dialogue it drives me batty...insane...crazy! Well I picked up such a book last night, and I had to share some of it. This is what NOT to do when writing dialogue. I might be telling everyone something they already know--if so I apoligize, but you can at least agree with me over the awfulness of the writing :)

Examples of BAD DIALOGUE:
1- This is the most stilted passage I've ever read to the opening of a novel --
"Yes, but she looked so sad."
"She did, didn't she?"
"I think she has been since Grandfather died."
"He was her favorite person." the young woman said...

--> There is absolutely no flow to this and it sounds like the most unnatural dialogue you'd hear two people speak.

2- Don't under-rated the beauty of simplicity. Sometimes she/he said works best. These are all the different dialogue tags I found on TWO pages.
she answered, Maddie asked (this 'asked' was used four times in a short space of dialogue - a question mark tells us they're asking a question and as there are only TWO people in the conversation all this dialogue tagging is not necessary), Jace directed, Jace replied, Maddie exclaimed, Maddie cut in (this is used twice almost back to back), Jace urged...

--> This is BAD. You shouldn't be able to name that many tags in two pages, the worst part is that half of these tags aren't even necessary.

3- And just DUMB sentences. Seriously here, the two characters are having a serious conversation about something the wife is worried about her husband doing and she replies 'Oh I forgot'...
"I told you I wouldn't do that again without telling you first."
"Oh, that's right. I forgot."

--> I know the author is trying to introduce the characters to us, set the stage, give us background information and such, but please don't do it through dumb dialogue.

Hello, and a Flash Fiction

2006-01-15T21:09:00.000-08:00

I just wanted to take a moment to thank Dave for the invitation to join you all here, and to introduce myself to those who don't know me, which is probably everyone else.

I’m Nona. I’m 24 years old and have been writing since about the 6th grade. I do occasionally try to sell something, and submit occasionally to online magazines, but so far there has only been one bite, and it was non-paying. Mainly I do it for the fun of it, writing as a hobby, and I figure if I keep it up long enough I’m bound to impress someone enough to get them to pay me for it.

Feel fee to ask me whatever you want, and you can always visit my Writers Notebook blog to see what I write but don’t share here.

And I may as well jump in and share something. This one is just a little flash fiction. Not too many words in me tonight.

THE FLY FRIGHT

When I opened my mouth to sing, a fly flew in. That was no big deal. When your mouth is open as much as mine is, you're bound to house in it an insect or two.

The problem was that the fly decided to explore that particular crevice just as I took a deep breath, and I had a six legged thing buzzthumping down my throat.

*cough*
*gasp*
*choke*

"What the hell was that?"

That wasn't me, that was the fly, loud and angry from somewhere in my belly.

It took 3 bottles of water to shut him up.

Where is Everyone?

2006-01-12T16:09:00.000-08:00

I have checked constantly since Christmas, and no one has been by. I trust you all are back to the hustle and bustle of your daily lives. I, however, remain unemployed and therefore have plenty of time for blogging and reading stories and writing.

I have found a site called Zoetrope.com where you can post your stories and get feedback from other writers. I have tried it, and for the most part, like it. I have gotten some solid information from it. Some critiques were obviously from novice or young writers, but that is ok. I like to see young people have a hankering for writing.

Thanks Lisa for pointing me to this site. Looking forward to reading more of your work. And maybe getting up enough gumption to post mine. Take care.

Mistletoe

2005-12-24T08:39:00.000-08:00

Hi guys! So here's my first post, as I've finally figured out after long last how to post. Cheezweezil suggested I post this short story I wrote here. It's also on my personal blog. This is my Christmas present to you guys. Without further ado I present to you a Christmas story: Mistletoe

Mistletoe
Isabelle hated being late. She knocked on the door and waited for her friend to answer. When the door opened she was already apologizing to Anne.

"Isabelle! Don't worry about it. We've barely begun. Now give me your coat and go mingle."

"I hate mingling. I hate parties."

"That is why I insisted you come. Now go meet people."

Isabelle took a deep breath and stopped just inside the doorway to the living room. It was filled with people. What was worse it was filled with people she didn't know. It wasn't that she didn't like to meet new people, just not on this scale. She smoothed her hands over her skirt and took a deep breath. Here goes nothing, she thought.

She turned suddenly as a hand touched her shoulder.

"I think you owe me a kiss," a tall man with rather brilliant green eyes said.

She managed, just barely, to keep a tart response from leaving her lips as she saw the mistletoe hovering above her head. "So it seems I do." She studied the face looking at her. She didn't know him. She was sure of that. She ran into many people at the University--he, she had never seen before. To hard to forget those eyes.

"You know mistletoe has a wonderful history..."

"I know. Since the time of the Greeks it's been considered a sacred plant. It was considered to bestow the gift of life and fertility upon its owner. It protected you from poison. In the Middle Ages is was hung on ceilings to ward off evil spirits. Yes I do know about Mistletoe's long and wonderfully rich history."

"So I see. I assume you know them it was considered an aphrodisiac?"

Isabelle turned bright red. She'd set herself up for that one. "One point for you, zero for me. You win that round." She smiled.

"Giving up so easily? I'll let you even the score if you can answer this question."

Isabelle was intrigued despite herself. "Go on I'm listening."

"What is the history behind kissing under the mistletoe?" the man asked.

Isabelle grinned. "You know there are quite a few stories. I could go with the primitive marriage rites, or the Scandinavia tale of mistletoe being a plant of peace, but somehow I think you want to hear the story about 18th century Europe and the kissing ball, basically a ball of evergreen branches strung together and decorated with bows and ribbon."

"A lady well versed in the history of traditions. And yes I find the kissing ball quite romantic. Young ladies--it was rumored--found true love or deep and lasting friendships under the kissing ball."

"Well it's been quite nice chatting, now I must go mingle."

"Ah, but you are forgetting you still owe me a kiss."

"One kiss, but first a request."

"And what would that be?"

"Does the man I'm about to kiss have a name?"

Isabelle listened to his deep laugh and smiled. She liked him.

"Michael. It's Michael."

~~~~~

A voice broke through her thoughts.

"That's disgusting Mommy. Kissing is gross. I'm never going to kiss any girls."

Isabelle laughed at her son. He was going to be a heart breaker one day--he had her looks, his father's eyes and personality, a lethal combination.

"Give it a few years Thomas. You might change your mind."

"I don't think so Dad."

"Mommy?" Katlin tugged on her mom's hand. "Is that how you and Daddy really met?

"That's how sweetie." She gave Katlin a hug. A year younger than her brother and the complete opposite of Thomas, she loved them both more than anything in the world.

"An aphrodisiac, hmmm. Did I really say that?" Michael murmured.

"Oh yes..."

"Mommy," Katlin interrupted. "What's an ap..fro..frode...she...ask?"

Isabelle laughed. She'd forgotten the kids where still there.

"It's something you're just going to have to wait to learn about, cause if you two don't hurry on up to bed Santa's gonna have to skip right over this house. He only stops by if he knows all the kids are sound asleep." Michael winked at Isabelle. "We'll continue this later," he said following Katlin and Thomas as they scurried up the stairs.

by: Jennifer

Trigger-Three can keep a secret if two are gone-

2005-12-03T13:40:00.000-08:00

The Secret-by Lisa Braendle
Question: Can narrator tell the story (Narrator POV) even though reader doesn't understand who told the narrator the story? I started out the story in Dorothy's POV but realized that was an issue at the end. And then switched to Narrator, but not sure if that works. Please give your feedback!

The Secret-
Dorothy fought back the tears as she recalled the day when she found an object in the woods by her childhood home that changed her life forever. She was only eight-years-old when she and her two friends, Heather and Teresa, stumbled upon it.

She slowly brushed off the dirt and unwrapped the velvet cloth to reveal an oval mirror with a small, blue handle. She thought it was just a regular mirror. But it wasn’t. She stared into the cloudy mirror and could not put it down. She felt drawn to it. Excited, she twirled round and round as if she was on one of the amusement park rides her Grandpa had taken her on.

Teresa and Heather thought it was stupid when Dorothy would not go anywhere without it. And, after a few weeks, she gazed into the mirror like she had done hundreds of times when suddenly through swirls of haze, Dorothy saw a face. It was the face of a young girl, around the same age as Dorothy, with hair like the color of butter.

“Who are you?” Dorothy whispered to the vision.

“My name is Elizabeth.”

“Why are you in there?” she said as she turned her head from side to side to see if anyone was watching.

"I can’t get out. What is your name?”

“My name is Dorothy. How did you get in there?” She asked as she twisted the ends of her hair.

"I found the mirror a long time ago. I got mad and wished I could go somewhere else, and then poof, I was in here.”

"Where did it come from?”

“It was in the woods by my house. I wish I hadn’t ever found it.”

“I wish I could help you,” Dorothy said.“But you can. You can wish your friends were in here and they’d be here, and I’d be free.”

“I can’t do that!”

“You’re right. That was a pretty stupid.”

“I’m sorry,” Dorothy said as she rubbed the mirror, and hoped the girl could feel her touch.

“Can’t we be friends anyway?”

“Okay. Sure,” said the porcelain face of pain.

Dorothy and Elizabeth had many conversations about dumb boys and how Dorothy didn’t like her Mom and Dad telling her what to do. But, her friends soon became jealous of Elizabeth and even threatened to tell their parents about her.

Dorothy panicked and didn’t know what to do. She knew she’d be in trouble or worse that her new friend would go away. Suddenly, Dorothy thought back to the conversation with Elizabeth.

She could wish her friends were in the mirror instead. That would work, she thought. Wouldn’t it? It had to. That’s when she came up with the plan. That same day, she invited her friends over for a sleep over.

"Hi guys,” Dorothy said with a nervous smile. “Want to play a game?”

Teresa and Heather looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. “Sure,” they said in unison.“Why not,” Heather said without much enthusiasm.

“Great. Okay, this is what we need to do. First, I’ll blindfold you both, and then we’ll play a kind of hide and seek. Are you ready?"

They both nodded.

She tied a scarf to cover their eyes, and placed the mirror in front of them and muttered, “I wish Teresa and Heather were in this mirror.”

Heather and Teresa quickly tore off the scarf in order to see what was going on. Suddenly, Heather’s face contorted into something wide and long and then into something short and narrow as did the rest of her little body. Wide eyed, she howled and turned translucent as the mirror’s power finally pulled her in.

“Help me, Dorothy,” Heather cried, “What is happening to me?”

“Don’t worry. It will be okay in a minute. We can still be friends.” She secretly hoped so anyway.

Teresa started to run away as tears streamed down her face, but didn’t get far. She screamed and tumbled to the ground as she too, started to change into a different form. Her body elongated and shortened simultaneously, back and forth, she stretched.

It reminded Dorothy of the time she was in a funhouse when she stood in front of the wavy mirrors that made her body look weird. In the end, Teresa could not escape the mirror’s strong grasp, and she was sucked into the mirror.However, when Dorothy looked into the mirror, she could not see her friends. She did see Elizabeth.

“Now what? Why didn’t you come out?” Dorothy asked.“I don’t know. Something went wrong. You’re friends couldn’t stay here. They had to go to another place.”

Shaking and shivering, Dorothy stood on the cold, hard ground. “Another place? What do you mean another place! I thought they would be okay in the mirror so we could at least still be friends. What happened to them,” she demanded.

“I just don’t know, Dorothy. I’m really sorry. I just want to get out of this mirror,” Elizabeth said as her face wrinkled and brown spots started to spread across her face while her once light brown hair turned to a dull gray.

Dorothy dropped the mirror and ran and ran until she couldn’t hear Elizabeth’s screeches any more.“Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me like all of the others. We’ll figure it out together… come back. Dorothy…come back to me.”

That’s all Dorothy heard as she ran as fast as she could back to her house. She slammed the door and didn’t look back.

Several years later, she did go back to those same woods, which was a big mistake. She felt its power. She lie on the ground and scattered the dried leaves in the area she’d dropped the mirror. She lowered her head, and silently wished she could find the source of her nightmares and the answers for peace of mind.“I wish I could find my friends,” she said aloud as she pounded the ground in frustration. Heart racing, her face suddenly widened and in horror, Dorothy touched her face. Oh no, no…no…no…she cried as her body transformed into something between time and space, and inside the mirror now, she found herself staring at Elizabeth, young once again.

“Your wish is my command,” Elizabeth whispered.

Dorothy and her friends entered a new dimension with Elizabeth. One that they could not escape.

###

Tip of the Week - Dialect in Dialogue

2005-11-19T22:27:00.000-08:00

Dialect can be fun to use when writing, but can also prove distracting if not handled properly.

Yeayers ago, I wood traw to spayell out werds as they sowndid win spokin. Although it gets the sound across that I want, it sure makes the dialogue a pain to read. It really is an amatuerish approach. You may as well put your own "rejected" stamp on your manuscript if you do that.

"Well, my character is Russian and speaks broken English, and walks with a limp and has 6 fingers on each foot..."

So? How do you deal with it?

The best advice I ever heard on this topic came from the book "Self-Editing For Fiction Writers" a highly recommended read. Their take on this is spell out every word the character says as it is properly spelled. Use the words they say, and dont use the words, they don't say. There are a few exceptions where you can get away with an improperly spelled word.

For example, from my book "Black White and Shades of Gray":
Gabe is a large male slave, Patrick is the son of the Plantation owner, and Smudge is a small slave boy. Gabe is the first one speaking in this sample:

****
"What you boys want?"

Patrick fought to speak between gasps for air. "We.. are going... to help."

"But you been doing this all day."

"So’s... you," Smudge said, breathing heavily.

"I talked you into this," Patrick said, still puffing. "But I can’t sit in there while you are out here. Especially knowing that you have already worked hard all day."

"You’s nothing like your pa, Massa Patrick... meaning no disrespect."

"To me or my Father," Patrick said grinning.

"Both of neither of you," Gabe said.
****

Let's examine one line in particular... Gabe's statement:
"You’s nothing like your pa, Massa Patrick... meaning no disrespect."

Authors back in Mark Twain's day had a lot of fun with lines like that. Dropping letters, adding apostrophe's, practically turning a sentence into something needing a secret decoder ring.

I could have written that same line like this:
"You's nothin' like yo' pa, Massa Patrick... meanin' no disrespeck."

That gets the sound of it into your head, but it stands out like a little dancing monkey.

The way I have it spelled out still gives you the flavor of the character's voice, without making you have to figure out what is being said. Comparing his dialogue segments with those of Patrick's, you can "hear" a distinct difference in their voices.

"But you misspelled Master! You just said not to do that!"

I did. I also stated that there are a few expection to that rule. You can slip in a "wanna" or a "gonna" if it fits the voice better.

Let's revisit Gabe's line and spell all of the words as they should be:
"You's nothing like your pa, Master Patrick... meaning no disrespect."

As you can see, the difference between "Master" and "Massa" makes a big difference in how Gabe sounds in your head.

"But is sounds so... 'ROOTS'!

Exactly.

The best thing you can do for your dialogue, is make it strong enough to give your character their personality, their style, and their voice. Show your readers what your characters are made of by their actions and their words. After all a word paints a thousand pictures, right? :)

Get into their heads, their hearts, and their souls, and give your readers the best you have.

Happy writing!

Dave

Tip of the Week - Show, Dont Tell

2005-11-12T17:49:00.000-08:00

The lyricist and drummer for the rock band Rush wrote a song that rings through my head frequently as I write. Some of the lyrics are as follows: "Show me don't tell me", and "Show... Don't tell..." I like the song, and it helps keep me on track.

I took a creative writing course in college, and my instructor harped on this topic. It was particularly difficult for me at that stage. Although I have a rather vivid imagination, I found myself telling the crap out of my stories.

Well then, HOW DO YOU DO IT?

The best way I have found through reading and coaching from various instructors, is to dive right in the middle of the situation. Don't try to describe it from the sidelines. If you are in a plane, pretend the main character is you, grab the parachute, scream the name a long dead Injun, and JUMP! Dont say, "Oh, and another guy fell out of the plane."

Again you ask, how do you do that? How do you get right in the middle of the situation? Dialogue will do it. Thoughts will do it. Interior monologue will do it. When you read a book, and the writer mentions a tree at the side of the road, how do you react?

1) What KIND of tree?
2) How big is it?
3) Where is it?
4) What color is it?
5) Are there any monkeys in it?

Example:

***
On my way to work this morning, I passed that same tree. I love that tree.
***

Well... SO?

***
Each and every morning I drive down the New Jersey Turnpike, invariably stuck behind a big stinky truck billowing copious amount of blue smoke over my shiny yellow Datsun B210. I look forward to my exit, Exit 493B. At the fork where it splits from the main highway stands a lone giant Oak tree weathered by the many years it has lived as a sentinal guarding the exit... my entrance to the best part of my daily commute.

Its voluminous green umbrella spans above countless thick branches. It contrasts its dreary grey surroundings and as though it is the only thing truly alive for miles in any direction. Its gargantuan trunk reminds me to stand firm in the midst of whatever may come my way.

I love that tree, its very being is a symbol of strength and never failing endurance.
***

I dunno, did I pull it off? *sheepish grin*

A good example of rewriting a "telling" story into a "showing" story is right here in this blog. "The Sibling War". The first draft has way too much telling, whereas the final draft pulls you right into the opening scene with dialogue.

Opening section of my first draft:
***
Everything was out of control. Seven southern states left the Union and formed the Confederate States when Lincoln was elected in March. After a successful attack on Fort Sumter in April, four more states left, including Virginia where we live. The western counties stayed with the Union, and named themselves West Virginia. Our farm was in one of them called Nicholas County, near Carnifex Ferry.
***
You may notice from that paragraph that I did a ton of research on the start of the war, and this place known as Carnifex Ferry. I did so much that I had all kinds of flavor for my story. But as you can see, that flavor is a bit strong, and there is too much info packed in there.

Opening section of my final draft:
***
"Missed again, Jake," said my eighteen-year-old brother Tom. "I got six out of six."

"Well, you’ve been shooting longer. Besides, I got one too," I said.

"It bounced off a rock first."

"I still got it," I said, digging my toe into the dirt.

Tom snorted, and walked away shaking his head.
***

Completely different. You can see how the first version is more like a newspaper informing you of something, where the final version plops you right in my character Jake's head as he and his brother Tom have a shooting competition.

Take a look at one of your stories. Is there anyplace within it that you could convert some "telling" into a scene and get your characters talking?

Get into your character's heads. How would they react to a situation? What would there facial expression be (Remembering POV of course), get in the middle of everything, and observe, observe, observe. Show me what is around the place, but dont detract from your story by doing so. Dont tell me Steve is mad, describe his body language, the color of his face, how many clenched teeth are showing through lips as he appears to be trying to move his top teeth into his bottom gums. Is he aggressive? Does he throw something? Does he *gasp* Cuss? I find "crap" to be far more effective than other options, but that's just me.

Paint a picture with your words, your pen is your paintbrush.

Happy writing!

Dave

Inner Child - Revised

2005-11-11T11:21:00.000-08:00

As I watch a television program with a cup of soup in hand, I hear the rustling of leaves outside my little house. I push myself up from the couch and stand slowly to check on the noise. There better not be any hoodlums out there. I hobble to my large kitchen window and peek out to the yard below.

I see tree branches stretching and swaying to the wind as if dancing for the moon. And, there is a dark-haired girl with a porcelain like face illuminated in the moonlight staring back at me. Even from a distance, I recognize something familiar about her.

I look around the yard and hope that I’m just imagining things-not unusual a woman of my age. But as I turn back, I have the little one in my sight again. She looks as if she’s waiting for something or someone when suddenly she points in my direction and motions me with the wave of her hand as if to say, “come to me.”

I squint to see her wave more insistently as I take a step out the side door. What am I doing? I think as I walk out onto my old wooden deck and swing open the squeaky door to steps leading me to her.

Breathing hard, I approach the little girl. My heart races like I’m seeing the birth of my first-born. Yet, I know this isn’t my child. As I stand only a few feet away, she sets her eyes upon me, and tears stream down her rosy cheeks.

Cool breezes blow through my thin, gray hair, and for some reason, I sense we are long lost friends who have been out of contact for a long time.

“What do you want little one? Are you lost? I ask as I push strands of hair out of my wrinkled face.“It is you who is lost.”

“No, honey, I’m home. How did you get here?”

“You know.”
“I don’t know. Do you know where you live? Where do you belong?”

“You know,” the little girl replied.

I wrap my hands tight across my chest for warmth and to stop the goose bumps from spreading. She walks toward me-this little one who is only four or five years old. And she reaches for my hand with her tiny warm hand, soft like a baby’s bottom. And her young, smooth hand intertwines with mine, which is now old and hardened.

She and I walk across the yard and smirk at each other like we can read each other’s mind. We see the playground at the school about fifty yards away, and this little friend of mine leads me down the sidewalk to the swings there.

In the still of the night and with leaves falling all around us, we each hop on a swing pumping our legs back and forth reaching higher and higher like we’re trying to reach the moon. While in mid air, we glance at each other and giggle. And as I smell the crisp smell of dried leaves, I figure it out.

She stops swinging for she knows that I know who she is. She jumps off the swing, runs and jumps on me, hugging me. And not one of those polite hugs you give your Aunt, but the kind that takes your breath away. And as I gaze into her little hazel eyes that are just like mine, I say,“You are me, and I am you.”

“I am you,” the little one whispered."

“I needed to see you again, didn’t I? I had forgotten about your pureness and your free spirit. We parted ways many years ago.”

She takes my hand and leads me this time to the slide, and we climb up. She slides down first, and I go next feeling the wind rush over me as slide down. I smile. My heart leaps for joy as I plow into myself. We became one.

And as I skip little steps back up the hill to my house, I breathe in the cool damp air reminding me that fall is here. I walk through the dewy grasses of my yard, and remember everything about her. Suddenly, I am young at heart once again.

###Flash fiction Written by Lisa Braendle

Tip of the Week - Point of View

2005-11-05T22:03:00.000-08:00

Ahhhhh... POV and its many subtle traps.

Point of view can be a tricky one if you don't know the rules. The main thing to remember is thoughts, feelings, deductions, etc can only be defined for the main character. We see the inside of the story through their eyes, thoughts, etc.

When writing in the first person (I walked along the path until the alligators ate my dog.) point of view becomes the most contricted. You have to write as though you are inside the point of view character's head, seeing, thinking, feeling, tasting, etc. All of these things for other characters are determined through the main characters observation. This means that emotions, thoughts or anything like that for anyone other than the point of view character can not be described as a fact.

First person example:
***
I stepped up to Jennifer's car, and to my horror, there was a bloody knife on the seat. I could see the guilty look in her eye, she had to nervous about it sitting there. Gus said that he didn't think she could be the Hofnagle Monkey Killer, but Jill swore that she was.
***
Everything here is as seen or recalled by the main character.

***
I stepped up to Jennifer's car, and to my horror, there was a bloody knife on the seat. Jennifer fidgeted and hoped I didn't see it.
***
Kind of a subtle one, but there is a POV shift in there. Jennifer fidgeted and hoped I didn't see it. How could "I" as the POV character KNOW that she hoped? Here is where words like "seemed", "appeared", etc come in handy. Jennifer seemed nervous as though she hoped I didn't see it. This lets you have the POV character make an assumption based on their observation as to what the other person is thinking.

One thing to always remember when writing first person is that, the POV character HAS to be there through the whole story. You can't go off into another part of the story while the POV character goes to the bathroom.

Third person example:
Incorrect POV usage:
***
Dave knew true fear when he stepped up to Jennifer's car and saw the bloody knife on the seat beside her. I hope he didn't see the bloody knife on the seat, Jennifer thought.
Gus felt that the odds of Jennifer being the Hofnagle Monkey Killer were pretty slim, but Jill knew in her heart that it was true.
***
ACK! Aside from that being flat out atrocious writing, you can see how the point of view shifts from character to character. This gets very confusing, and loses focus in the story quickly.
In this example, Dave was the original POV guy, but we suddenly jump to Jennifer's brainwaves, to Gus' feelings, Jill's knowledge.

Here is the same bit of slop through a single point of view:
***
Dave knew true fear when he stepped up to Jennifer's car and saw the bloody knife on the seat. The guilty look in her eye led Dave to believe that she was nervous about it. Gus had mentioned that it was unlikely that Jennifer could be the Hofnagle Monkey Killer, but Jill had been so certain.
***
Equally crappy, but you get the point. Everything in the second example was through Dave's eyes, observations, and recollection. Once again, the POV character has to be there all of the time, and can't be in the bathroom as action continues for the reader.

J. K. Rowling, bless her, got away with this in book one of the Harry Potter series. During a game of Quidditch, Harry (POV character) experiences trouble with his broom. Suddenly the story leaps down into the stands where his friends attempt to figure out what is going on. They solve the problem, then POV goes back to Harry when he wakes up in the hospital. Granted, that scene would be difficult to do from Harry's point of view since he was bucking around in the air high above the goings on in the stand.

Even though she is a billionaire, there are several things in her writing style that go against the structural standars. She is definitely and -ly adverb abuser, and her dialogue tags are very descriptive. ie "spat Snape", or Harry said dreamily. But when you're rich, I guess you can write however you want. :)

Happy writing!

Dave

Tip of the Week - dialogue tags and voice

2005-10-29T21:30:00.000-07:00

This is one area of writing that frequently gets overlooked and to the writer's discredit. Proper use and format for dialogue tags is very important.

First lets discuss format:

1) A lead in approach: Dave stumbled through the doorway, fell hard to the floor, and said, "Who cut off my feet?"
In this arrangement, the dialogue is preceeded by "said" and a comma. Any punctuation stays within the quotes, as the question mark is in my example.

2) Split format: "About time you got here," Dave said. "The house is almost ash." (Fire alarm joke Jill :) )
This way, the dialogue is split in to two sections, allowing the tag to give a little break between them. Notice the punctuation. In the first section of the dialogue, the comma is placed before the closing quote mark. The close of the sentence is "Dave said." It is also acceptable to have a comma after "Dave said" then continue in the next section with an uncapitalized lead in word.
This format is very useful when there is a lot to be said. The break should come very early, then the rest can flow to the end. This is a tip I learned from Editing Yourself into Print. The author states that the reading "ear" requires a little pause at the front, but can hang on until the end after that.

3) Short dialogue: "Thanks for the computer Mr. Gates," Dave said.
This form is like the split format, but without the trailing section of dialogue.

4) Thoughts: Dave climbed out of the vat, and walked toward the raucous crowd. I hope nothing is showing through the whole in my pants.
There are several things to remember when using thoughts.
a) Never use quotes
b) It is proper to italicize thoughts (I checked Lisa, you were right.)
c) A thought tag is not needed.
By this I mean that instead of: "What just hit me in the head?" Dave wondered.
Use this: What just hit me in the head?
By dropping the thought tag, it strengthens the effect.

Second, lets discuss the order in which pieces of the dialogue need to be set.

Q: Which comes first, the person or the said?
A: The person.
This will make your dialogue stronger.
Use this: "He smelled like a four month old salami,"Dave said.
Not this: "Her teeth were as white as the business end of a high velocity snow ball," said Dave.

Lastly, let's consider the tag itself.
This is one area where my writing instructer slapped me silly. There is a great book on this very topic entitled, "SHUT UP!" he explained."
I was very extravagant with my speaker attributions, ie Dave growled, Dave snarled, Dave snorted, Dave chuckled, etc.

Once this had been pointed out to me, bedtime stories with my son became gag and barf sessions. One of his books had the tag "they gurgled." I found myself editing while I read. but I digress.

It is best in most occasions to use the word "said" as your speaker attribution. Show the strength of your dialogue with the dialogue itself, not with a descriptive tag.

Here is an example of how this can get ugly fast:

"Hi," Dave greeted.
"Hello," Lisa waved.
"How are you?" Dave questioned.
"Oh, I am fine," Lisa answered.
"Nice weather," Dave commented.
"It certainly is," Lisa agreed.

You get the idea. Tags liked "waved" and "gurgled" dont even make sense. The word "Hello" is not spoken with the waving hand, it is spoken from the mouth. The speaker attribution is needed only to convey who is speaking. It is not necessary to have a tag on every bit of dialogue. As in the example above, even if all of the goofy tags were changed to "said" it would still be cumbersome to read.

The dialogue should be able to tip you off as to who is saying it. Following is a short excerpt from my book "Black, White, and Shades of Gray." In this little piece, there are two boys, Patrick, a white son of a slave owner, and Smudge, a small black slave boy.

****
"Why they give us hog slop," Smudge said as he and Patrick sat on the ground to eat.

"You’d have to know my father better to understand."

"Don’t wanna do that, I knows enough already."
****

Although the last two pieces of dialogue do not have tags, it is clear who is speaking. The voice of the character should be able to tell you who is speaking. Of course, if there is a conversation going on, it is important to sprinkle tags here and there to help the reader keep track. Just the right amount, not too many, or too few.

Another example:
1) "Owie, it hurts," Dave winced.
2) Dave's face contorted with the pain. "My arm is on fire."

Auto Crit-

2005-10-26T12:54:00.000-07:00

Here is an interesting little tool-check out:
www.autocrit.com/processtext.cfm

It's a quick critique of 2000 words for minor grammatical errors (etc!)

It's not perfect, but for an overall analysis, why not?

The Sibling War (Final draft followed by the first draft)

2005-10-24T21:59:00.000-07:00

"Missed again, Jake," said my eighteen-year-old brother Tom. "I got six out of six."

"Well, you’ve been shooting longer. Besides, I got one too," I said.

"It bounced off a rock first."

"I still got it," I said, digging my toe into the dirt.

Tom snorted, and walked away shaking his head.

I kept shooting at some cans before a man in a blue uniform ran out of the woods, waving his arms. "You best stop that, son. You’ve been plinking up our camp pretty good."

"What camp?"

"We got the Union recruiting going on yonder."

"Really? Can I see?"

"I expect."

I followed him into a clearing filled with tents. Several men were gathered around campfires, others were seated at tables spread with papers.

"Are they recruiters?" I asked, pointing to the seated men.

"Yup."

I walked to the nearest table, but the man there ignored me.

"You sign people up to fight?" I asked.

He scratched his chin, and said, "That’s right."

"Can I join?" I said. "I’ve already got me a gun."

"What, that squirrel-popper?" he said with a suspicious look. "How old are you?"

"Thirteen." "Go home kid. War is man’s work."

But I didn’t go home. I sneaked into the rows of musty smelling tents. Smoke from the campfires hung in the air. As I wandered around, I saw some uniforms on a clothesline. I stuffed a blue coat and a pair of pants under my shirt, grabbed a soldier hat from a nearby log, then ran into the woods to change. The coat sleeves hung to my knees, and the hat bent my ears down. I had to roll up the pant legs so I wouldn’t trip. When I got home, Mama, Pa, and Tom were outside. Tom was wearing a gray uniform.

"Jake, what you got on?" Mama asked.

"My uniform."

"Lord A’mighty boy, why’d you do such a fool thing?" Pa asked. "We cain’t have boys on both sides."

Tom threw me hard to the ground. "You’re a stinking Blue Belly?"

"You was wrong to join them rotten Rebs," I said.

"Shut up runt."

I got to my feet, and dusted off my over-size pants. "I’m gonna get you and all them other Rebs, Tom."

"Not the way you shoot, Dead Eye," he said.

Pa stepped between us. "Tom, you go on now, and leave your brother be," he said.

"Yessir," Tom said. He gathered his gear, and headed off to join the Confederate troops.

Mama waggled a finger at me. "You ain’t gonna prove anything to Tom by getting yourself shot dead."

"They wouldn’t let me in, Mama. I never get to do nothing."

"Then how’d you get that uniform?"

"I snuck it."

We never heard from Tom. Mama spent hours staring out the window in the direction he left.

After several weeks, hundreds of Rebs made camp in the woods where we lived. Their white A-frame tents showed through the trees. They built tall log barriers along the edge of the forest for protection. Before long, Union soldiers moved near the other side of our house.

"D’ya think they’ll fight, Pa?"

"I expect so, son."

I ran and put on my blue Union uniform. "Can I go look at the cannons?"

"Don’t be a fool, Jake," Pa said. "You go wandering around outside with that get-up on and you’ll be dead as a plucked turkey before you can spit."

"Jake ain’t no fool," Mama said, as she pulled the curtains closed and locked the door. Her eyes told me that I best stay put.

A loud crack from outside startled us, and we heard shouting. Soon the air was full of musket and cannon balls. We were stuck in the middle, and our house got hit from both sides. Most of our windows got blasted out, and we could hear the horrible noise of wounded and dying men. Foul-smelling gunpowder smoke darkened the sky, and poured in through the broken windows. It burned my nose and eyes. The chaos outside and the eery whir of the ammunition was terrifying.

"Stop it," Mama yelled. "Stop it!"

"Hush up now Clara, you’re giving me an aching head," Pa said.

"And all this isn’t?" she said.

A musket ball came through the window and smashed Mama’s pretty vase to pieces all over the fireplace mantle and floor. Pa got some blankets, his rifle, and a pistol for me.

"Now that’s a single-shot, so don’t shoot unless you have to, Jake."

The house shook when stray cannon balls slammed into it. We got under the blankets to protect ourselves from flying debris. Broken glass and splintered wood covered the dusty floor. After several hours of deafening noise, the sun set and the battle wound down. Not long after the last of the musket fire, I heard running footsteps outside that came around our house, and up onto the porch.

"There’s somebody out there," Mama said. She screamed as fists pounded on the door. Pa held his hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wide, and tears were running down her cheeks. The thumps changed to heavy kicks. My hands were shaking as I aimed at the door. The wood around the latch splintered, and the lock broke free. The door flew open and slammed against the wall. In the flickering candlelight I could see a soldier in a gray uniform holding a rifle.

"Reb!" I hollered, and ran toward him, pistol aimed at his chest. I forgot that I was wearing my blue uniform.

Surprised, the intruder pulled up his rifle, and we both fired. My shot pushed the pistol over my head, and I fell backwards. The Reb dropped to his knees, and slumped onto his face. A cloud of dust blew up around him.

"I got him, I got him." I yelled. I tried to get up, but my side hurt. I put my hand on it, and it came back wet and red.

"Mama, he shot me."

"What’d I tell you?" Mama muttered as she tore open the powder-burned hole in my shirt, and examined my wound. Pa poked the Reb with his rifle, then shoved him with his foot.

"I think he’s a goner." He kneeled down and rolled him over. Pa’s face went white. "Oh, Clara," he whispered. Mama looked quickly over at him. "It’s Tom," he said. He looked at me in disbelief. "You killed Tom."

Mama screamed through her hands and collapsed into Pa’s arms. For the first time in my life I had bested my brother. I had finally gotten off a better shot, and now Tom was dead. He had probably come to make sure we were okay, and I killed him. I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept seeing my brother dead on the floor.

The next morning I helped Pa bury Tom. Every time the shovel chunked into the dirt, it felt like a knife in my heart. I wrapped the pistol in my uniform, and laid it on Tom’s chest.

"I’m sorry, Tom," I said.

As we lowered him into the hole, I broke down and cried. All this time I thought I had hated my brother Tom, but now I knew different.

END OF FINAL DRAFT

This version was the first draft submitted as assignment #2 to The Insitute for Children's Literature. This version is here as a comparison, to show the difference rewrites can make. I did a major rewrite on this version, then months later did another one which produced the assignment #7 finished version.

Incidentally, I just submitted that version to a magazine...

**** Notes: I did extensive research for this story to gather as much information as I could about conditions, clothes, food, and whatever I could think of. I ended up with a lot of great stuff. I tried in this version to include as much of it as I could, it shows through. In the rewrite, most of those things were taken out. ****

The Sibling War-first draft

Everything was out of control. Seven southern states left the Union and formed the Confederate States when Lincoln was elected in March. After a successful attack on Fort Sumter in April, four more states left, including Virginia where we live. The western counties stayed with the Union, and named themselves West Virginia. Our farm was in one of them called Nicholas County, near Carnifex Ferry.

My family was riled up about which side was right. My eighteen year old brother Tom joined up with the Rebs. I told him to his face that he was wrong, and went to join the Union army. The recruiter sent me home because I was only thirteen.

"Go home kid," he said, "War is man’s work."

Instead of going right home, I sneaked past the tent, and poked around the camp. I found some uniforms draped on a clothesline. I looked around, then stuffed a blue coat and some pants under my shirt. I found a Kepi soldier hat, and took that too.

On the way home, I stopped in the woods and changed into the uniform. The coat was too big and the hat bent my ears down. I got home right before Tom left to join the troops. He got mad when he saw my blue coat.

"Yer a stinkin’ Blue Belly!"

"Well, yer a dirty Reb!"

I never got along with Tom, he was pretty bullheaded and a lot bigger. He would go out of his way to pick a fight with me and always won. Mama cried a lot because of us, she couldn’t stand to see us at each other’s throats all the time. Pa didn’t care as much.

"Tom, you go on now, and leave your brother alone," said Pa. "Yessir," Tom said, and headed off down Gauley Road.

"Jake Patteson! What is that you got on?" Mama said.

"My uniform, Mama!" I said with a proud smile.

"Lord A’mighty, boy! Why’d you go and do a fool thing like that?" Pa asked disgustedly. "We cain’t have boys on both sides!".

"It’s too dangerous Jakey!" Mama said. "You ain’t gonna prove anything by gettin’ yourself shot dead!"

"They wouldn’t let me in, Mama," I said. I was pretty upset that I couldn’t go fight. Tom always got to do things, but I was never old enough. I didn’t have to wait long before I saw all the action I ever wanted to see.

In September, thousands of Rebs made camp in the woods on our farm. We could see their A-shaped tents through the trees. They built barriers out of logs for protection from attack. On September tenth, Union troops moved up near the other side of our house. Their line was closer to us than the Rebs.

I was excited to see real Union soldiers right outside. I ran and put on my blue uniform. Mama locked the door. I’m not sure which side fired first, but before I knew it there were musket and cannon balls everywhere. Our house was right in the middle of the battle, and was hit from both sides. Most of our windows got blasted out, and we could hear all the awful sounds of the chaos outside. The horrible noise of dying men, long musket rifles, and huge cannons was so loud we could hardly hear each other. Mama screamed and screamed.

Pa ran for his guns and tossed me his single shot pistol. We covered up to protect ourselves from broken glass, and debris from the walls. It seemed like it would never stop. Mama was practically hysterical.

Finally the sun went down, and the battle stopped. Before long there came a pounding at the door, and muffled yells. The loud thumps continued, but we didn’t dare answer. The thumps changed to heavy kicks as they tried to break in. I was scared to death, and had my pistol aimed right at the door. The wood splintered, and a couple more kicks broke the lock free, and the door flew open. In the candlelight I could see a Reb soldier with a rifle.

"Reb!" I hollered, and ran toward him, pistol aimed at his chest. I forgot that I was wearing my blue uniform.

The surprised Reb pulled up his rifle, and we both fired. My shot pushed the pistol up over my head, and I fell backwards. The Reb dropped to his knees, and slumped down onto his face.

"I got him! I got him!" I yelled. I tried to get up, but my side hurt. I looked down and saw blood.

"Mama! He shot me!" I screamed.

Mama rushed over to help me. Pa poked at the Reb with his rifle, then shoved with his foot.

"I think he’s a goner," Pa said quietly. He kneeled down and rolled him over. Pa’s face went white, and he sank back. "Oh, Clara." he said in a whisper. Mama looked over at Pa. "It’s Tom!" he said. He looked at me in disbelief and said, "You killed Tom!" Mama screamed and ran over. She fell apart when she saw blood all over Tom’s chest and the floor.

I felt sick inside. For the first time in my life I had bested my brother. I got off a better shot, and now Tom was dead. He had probably come to make sure we were okay, and I killed him for his trouble. I really thought I hated him, but now I knew different. I couldn’t sleep that night, I kept seeing my dead brother on the floor.

What I saw the next morning made me nauseous. There were bloody bodies everywhere. About one hundred and fifty Union men where dead in front of the Reb barriers. Mama patched up the wounded, and Pa helped with the dead. It was the worst thing I had ever been through. The day before, I wanted to fight, now it was the furthest thing from my mind. I never wanted to see anything like this again.

Uncle Harry's Angel

2005-10-23T12:04:00.000-07:00

(This story was the first attempt at writing based on a list of words. It was abandoned, and "The Sibling War" was spawned from the same word list.)

I never knew my mother and father, or what happened to them. The only family I ever knew was old Uncle Harry. He was as kind as they come and always had a smile on his wrinkled face.

"Jeb", he’d say to me, "Some things is just best unknowed," and would never tell much about my parents.

Uncle Harry and I lived in his old shack until I was eleven. He was old and feeble, and had trouble getting around. I had to do most of the chores, because he just couldn’t anymore. We were on our way out to sit in the porch swing the day he fell.

"Won’t it be nice to sit out in this nice weather, Jeb?" he had just said to me when he suddenly collapsed in the doorway. It really scared me to see him crumpled unconscious on the floor, halfway out of the door, his head bleeding where he hit it on the armrest of the porch swing.

Uncle Harry wasn’t very big, but it was difficult to get him to his bed. It took me the better part of an hour to get him patched up and settled. He never was quite right after that day. He couldn’t remember things, he slept a lot more, had dizzy spells, and always seemed to have a worried look on his face. Sometimes it was like he wasn’t even in there. I would look in his eyes and see no hint that he knew who I was. He would sit in his rocking chair with his wooden cane by his side, a cup of warm cider, and a little throw pillow across his lap.

"That’s for Yappy", he told me when I asked about the pillow. Yappy was his little mutt dog that always used to sit on his lap. He was long ago gone, but Uncle Harry insisted that he was just outside "tendin’ to nature", and he’d be right back.

Uncle Harry’s spells made him stay in bed most of the time. I read frequently to him from the Bible and newspaper.

"I’m scared of dyin’ Jeb," he said weakly as I read one day. "I don’t wanna die!"

"You ain’t gonna die Uncle Harry," I told him, but I knew in my heart that his time was short. His condition worsened daily, and the doctor told me that he expected Uncle Harry to go anytime.

I had to wash our clothes, make our food, and feed Uncle Harry. It was hard for him to swallow, so he wore a bib to keep his clothes getting covered with food. On his last day, I made a big mess of him with applesauce. As I washed his face with a warm wet rag, he whispered slowly, "Who’s that, Jeb?"

"Who Uncle Harry?"

"That fella over there."

I looked around and didn’t see anyone.

"Where?"

"Behind you."

Again, I saw nothing, but felt I should go along with him.

"Oh... him! Yeah I see him," I said.

"What’s he want?"

"Dunno... I’ll ask him," I said, and pretended to ask.

"Is he waitin’ for me to die so he can take me away?"

"No, Uncle Harry, he’s not here to take you away."

"Who is he then?" he said with a low, raspy voice and coughed.

He looked so worried and afraid, and it made me sad. Uncle Harry taught me to tell the truth, but here I didn’t know for sure what the truth was. I needed to make him feel better, so I did my best.

"That’s your special angel Uncle Harry, he’s here to make sure you get better," I said. It was an attempt to calm his fears, it felt like the truth. I didn’t want him to know that he really was dying.

"My special... angel?" Uncle Harry questioned, and relaxed back into his pillow. His voice barely audible, he continued, "Gonna make me better... not gonna... die."

He seemed relieved, and at ease, his face ashen but calm. I heard him mumble quietly to himself, "Special angel... better... angel... good."

"It’s gonna be okay," I told him, and held his hand in mine.

"Not... gonna..." he breathed out faintly then fell silent. Uncle Harry was gone. He passed believing he would get better, and he wasn’t afraid anymore. I don’t know for sure what he saw that day, but like he had said to me, "Some things is just best unknowed."

INNER VOICE

2005-10-21T08:43:00.000-07:00

This was written quickly and hasn't been edited much since I hadn't planned on publishing it, but maybe we can "pick" it apart for fun. This is a good example of gerund overuse. I just can't help it :)

###
While watching a television program and eating a cup of soup, I hear the rustling of leaves outside my little house. Pushing myself up from the couch, I stand slowly to check on the noise. There better not be any hoodlums out there, I thought. Hobbling to the large kitchen window, I peek out to the yard below seeing tree branches stretching and swaying to the wind as if dancing for the moon.And, there standing in a pile of leaves, I see a dark-haired girl with a porcelain like face illuminated in the moonlight staring back at me. Even from a distance, I recognize something familiar about her.

As I look around the yard, I’m hoping that I’m imagining things-not unusual a woman of my age. But, turning back, I once again have the little one in my sight. She looks as if she’s waiting for something or someone when suddenly she points in my direction and motions me with the wave of her hand as if to say, “come to me.”I squint to see her wave more insistently, and I take a step out the side door. What am I doing? I think walking out the door onto my old wooden deck and swinging open the squeaky door to steps leading me to her.

Breathing hard, I approach the little girl. My heart races like I’m seeing the birth of my first-born. Yet, I know this isn’t my child. As I stand only a few feet away, she sets her eyes upon me, and tears stream down her rosy cheeks.As the cool breezes blow through my thinning gray hair, for some reason, I sense we are long lost friends who have been out of contact for a long time.

“What do you want little one?

Are you lost? I ask pushing strands of hair out of my wrinkled face.“It is you who is lost.”“No, honey, I’m home. How did you get here?”
“You know.”

“I don’t know. Do you know where you live? Where do you belong?”

“You know,” the little girl replied.

I wrap my hands tight across my chest for warmth and to stop the goose bumps from spreading. She walks toward me-this little one who is only four or five years old. And she reaches for my hand with her tiny warm hand, soft like a baby’s bottom. And her young, smooth hand intertwines with mine, which is now old and hardened.

She and I walk across the yard smirking at each other like we can read each other’s mind. We see the playground at the school about fifty yards away, and this little friend of mine leads me down the sidewalk to the swings there. In the still of the night and with leaves falling all around us, we each hop on a swing pumping our legs back and forth reaching higher and higher like we’re trying to reach the moon. While in mid air, we glance at each other and giggle. And as I smell the crisp smell of dried leaves, I figure it out.

She stops swinging for she knows that I know who she is. Getting off the swing, she runs and jumps on me, hugging me. And not one of those polite hugs you give your Aunt, but the kind that takes your breath away. And as I gaze into her little hazel eyes that are just like mine, I say,“You are me, and I am you.”

“I am you,” the little one whispered.

“I needed to see you again, didn’t I? I had forgotten about your pureness and your free spirit. We parted ways many years ago.”

She takes my hand and leads me this time to the slide, and we climb up. She slides down first, and I go next feeling the wind rush over me as slide down. I smile. My heart leaps for joy as I plow into myself. We became one.Skipping little steps back up the hill to my house, I breathe in the cool damp air reminding me that fall is here, and as I walk through the dewy grasses of my yard, I remember everything about her. And, suddenly I am young at heart once again.

###
Flash fiction Written by Lisa Braendle

Tip of the Week - Gerunds and adverbs

2005-10-20T19:08:00.000-07:00

Early on in my writing course, my instructor bled all over my work. She mentioned excessive use of gerunds and -ly words.

Just to make sure everyone is on the same page, a gerund is a word that ends in -ing. Words ending in -ly are in most cases an adverb, or a word that describes an action.

An example:

****
As I was walking down Main Street, singing a song, I was carrying my baby sister who was laughing and giggling.

"Goo goo," I said lovingly.

"Geeble blibber flerf," she said amusedly.

I kept talking and singing happily, knowing that I was lifting her spirits as well as keeping her calm.
****

Lovely piece of work, that! (I made it up for the example).

Her point was to watch out for too many -ing words. Although they had never attracted my attention before her note, they now pop out at me like a bouncing flopping jack-in-the-box.

"Although the -ly adverbs seem to make it easy to let the reader know how the speaker was feeling, they also tend to weaken the dialogue," I said conveyingly.

"They draw attention to themselves, and bog down the dialogue," Dave said instructively.

"If your dialogue cannot convey the emotion, or the attitude with which it is spoken, then adding an -ly word isn't going to help," I said passively.

"The dialogue itself needs to be stronger," the blogger said emphatically.

This falls into the "Show me, don't tell me" category.

Compare the following and see which you think has more of an impact:

"Darn you," he said angrily.

or

"If you ever do that again, I will break your head like a melon."

In the second example, it is clear that the speaker is angry, and you/I as the writer, dont need to tell the reader that he is angry by adding the adverb.

The first handful of posts in this blog are examples of my early work for the purpose of example. If you take a moment to analyze them, you will see many of the mistakes I will be using as tips of the week.

There are usually several ways to say the same thing, your task is to find the best one.

Happy writing,

Dave

Jacob, Age 12

2005-10-16T10:17:00.000-07:00

Dave Hanks
August 2002
Assignment 5a for Institute of Children's Literature.
About 350 words
Target Age: 9-14

Notes: The assignment was to write from our observations of an actual child. This short story, though embellished, is based on an actual incident that occured in our own home.

The shelf of the double sliding door closet was filled with stacked cardboard boxes, a super soaker squirt gun, a crumpled scout shirt, haphazardly placed papers, and blocky black slippers with rows of red and white buttons that resembled large fuzzy television remotes. Three shirts hung from the wooden rod on blue plastic hangers. One, a maroon shirt with orange flames, had slipped and was precariously held by the tilted hanger.

Below, a tall and very thin boy with blonde spiked hair sat in the closet wearing a pair of well-worn and loosely laced red sneakers. Missing the plastic tips, the frayed laces lay arbitrarily at the sides. The soles had separated at the front, and the tattered tongues were forced forward.

A dirty sock showed through the right toe. Scraped, swab-like legs showed between uneven socks and torn jeans. A large, ragged hole revealed a knobbly knee with a half-stuck band-aid only partially protecting a red, swollen angular cut. Dirty grass stains covered each pant leg. A ripped t-shirt with red blotches hung as if wilted over drooped shoulders.

His knees were held to his chest with boney, scuffed arms. His hand gripped his wrist so tightly that the knuckles were white. His body trembled and lurched with muffled sobs.

"What’s the matter, Jacob? What happened to you?" a stocky, brown haired boy wearing bent glasses asked.

Jacob lifted his tear-streaked face, a red mark crossed his forehead where it had been pressing against his legs.
"I don’t want to talk about it Clinton," he said quietly.

His small fanned-out ears and freckled turned-up nose were both bright red. Remnants of dried blood covered his upper lip. Puffy chestnut brown eyes peered out as he snuffled noisily and wiped with the back of his hand. His face was gaunt, with several scratches and scrapes, and dark circles under each eye.

"C’mon dude, what’s goin’ on?" Clinton said.

"I’m scared."

"Of what?"

"I’m scared to go home," he said. "Don’t tell my mom I’m here."

"How come?"

"I don’t want to get beat again!"

Dave Hanks
August 2002
Assignment 5b for the Institute of Children's Literature
About 350 words
Target age: 9-14

Notes: This assignment was to take the character from assignment 5a (part 1) and tell a story from their point of view. It is actually a lead in to part 1. This story is fictional.

I was feeling a little bummed at school today, mostly because of everything that was going on at home. My step-mom is kind of mean, and it’s hard not to get on her bad side all the time. She grounds me a lot, and it isn’t always what I did that decides how long... sometimes, it’s the bruises. I actually like to go to school, because it is about the only place I can get away from her.
I went out to the playground after lunch. It was really warm, and the sky was so blue it almost looked fake. I wandered around and watched a couple Cactus Wrens, and some kids playing soccer, but I didn’t feel like playing. I kicked a rock and hurt my toe because of the hole in my shoe.

I guess I spaced off, because I smacked right into Jeff Jorgenson, the guy they call "Pig." He was with his friend "Munch." They are both big and mean, and like to beat up other kids.
Before I knew it, Pig had me by the back of my hair slamming my face into the ground, and Munch was on top of me twisting my arms.

"Baby Jerkob had enough?" Pig said after awhile.

"Yeah, whatever... get off ya dork!"

When they finally let me up, my nose was bloody, my face was all scraped up, and my shirt was ripped.

"You should watch where you’re going, Pansy." Pig said.

My fists balled up and I belted Pig as hard as I could right on his stupid fat nose. I think I broke it, because blood gushed out all over his clothes. Munch grabbed the front of my shirt, and looked like he was about to smash me, but Mr. Sorenson the fifth grade teacher ran up and caught his arm before he could. Pig took off covering his face with both hands, but Mr. Sorenson had me by the shirt, and Munch by his arm. He hauled both of us into the principal’s office so they could call our parents. I knew I was dead when I got home.

Flight of the Wrights

2005-10-15T23:34:00.000-07:00

Dave Hanks
January, 2002
Assignment #4 for the Institute for Children's Literature
800 words
Target Age: 9-14

Orville and Wilbur Wright were ordinary men with an extraordinary desire. They wanted to fly.

"If God had wanted man to fly, He would have given him wings!" scoffed doubters. Others just thought they were lunatics. Wilbur wrote to Samuel Langley the director of the Smithsonian Institution who was known to be working on a flying machine, "I believe that simple flight at least is possible to man. I am an enthusiast, but not a crank. I wish to avail myself of all that is already known and then if possible add my bit."

Orville and Wilbur went right to work on developing their own flying machines. They tested many of their theories and designs on gliders, but what they really wanted was a self-powered flying machine.

Wilbur watched how birds used their wings, and applied that information to his wing design wings for their machine. Together he and Orville built a small wind tunnel to test many different shapes that were scale models of the actual wings that would eventually be on the flying machine. They finally found a design that would be able to lift the aircraft in a strong wind.

In order to turn their glider into a true flying machine, it would have to be able to make itself fly. This meant that it needed a motor for power and a way to use that power to propel itself forward. Unable to find a suitable motor that would be strong enough for their machine, Orville and Wilbur designed and built their own with the help of a mechanic at their bike shop. They also designed their own propellers.

Finally, in mid December 1903, the Wright Brothers took their "flyer," as they had come to call it, to Kitty Hawk, North Carolina where they had previously tested their gliders. Wilbur won a coin toss to see
which of them would get to fly first. His attempt was unsuccessful and caused minor damage to the left wing, one of the skids, and several other parts, which took them two days to repair.

The morning of December 17, 1903 was freezing. Ice had formed over puddles in their camp. The brothers and several men from the nearby Kill Devil Hill Life Saving Station, who were assisting them, had to warm themselves frequently over a fire they had built in a large can. The "biting cold" wind as Orville labeled it, was strong, almost too strong for them to perform their test. Orville later recalled that he was amazed that they dared to test the flyer under such harsh conditions.

The flyer rested on a 60 foot monorail track whose purpose was to guide the flyer into the wind in a straight course. A wire held the machine in place until the test was ready. Orville was to be the pilot this time since Wilbur had already taken his turn. He ran the motor for a minute or two to make sure it was warm, released the wire, and the flyer began to move forward. It moved more slowly than when Wilbur had made his attempt. This time it was facing a 27 mile-an-hour wind.

Wilbur ran along side holding the wing tip to keep it balanced. He stayed by the side until it lifted from the track after traveling 40 feet. Orville Wright was in the air and flying. He struggled to keep the flyer level in the unsteady wind, as he was not yet used to the controls. It climbed and fell sharply, then climbed again. After about 100 feet, it dived, and Orville was not able to pull it up in time to avoid landing.

The 12 second, 120 foot long flight was over. The first manned flight of a self-powered craft had flown without losing speed, and landed on ground as high as where it had begun. Orville calculated that on a calm day, such as with Wilbur’s initial attempt, this would have been equivalent to a 540 foot flight.

This was an amazing accomplishment from two ordinary men, one of whom had once stated, "The boys of the Wright family are all lacking in determination and push. None of us has, as yet, made particular use of the talent in which he excels other men."

The Day the Sky Fell

2005-10-15T22:55:00.000-07:00

Dave Hanks
May, 2001
Assignment #1 at the Institute for Children's Literature
820 words
Target age: 9-14

The day started like any other, everyone rose to the crowing rooster as the summer sun peeked over the silhouette of the barn. Ten-year old Jeremy loved the farm and the animals. His job was to feed the chickens and gather eggs. His older sister Jesse had her own chores, but sometimes helped to make sure he didn’t break any eggs.

The chickens scurried over when Jeremy, with his dog Sparky, began to spread feed. He rolled Sparky’s favorite ball into the middle of the feeding chickens. Sparky barreled after it, making the chickens squawk and flap about. Jeremy referred to this as "chicken bowling".

"That’s MEAN!", Jesse scolded as she entered the barn to feed the horses.

Jeremy grinned and waved her off, then whistled for Sparky as he headed toward the hen house. It was not long until the familiar dinner bell clang and Aunt Sally’s call of "Breakfast!" filled the air. Jeremy looked forward to his daily race to breakfast with Jesse. He spotted her speeding from the barn and sprinted toward the house. He arrived laughing a step ahead of her. They both paused to catch their breath before going inside. Sparky was nearby barking nervously.

"What’s the matter boy?" Jeremy called. A wind had picked up, and a rumble turned his head. Storm clouds were boiling across the sky.

"Jeremy... Look!" came Jesse’s ghostly voice.

He spun to look where she was pointing and gasped at ominous clouds and a massive twisting black funnel.

"Get Aunt Sally!" Jeremy ordered.

Jesse bolted into the house, then burst back out with Aunt Sally struggling to keep up. A worried look crossed Aunt Sally’s face as she eyed the funnel cloud.

"Head to the storm cellar!," Jeremy shouted.

The funnel touched down as they neared the barn. Uncle Stan, who had been inside pitching hay, waved them into the barn and directed them to the cellar next to the stalls. Jesse and Aunt Sally entered first. The noise was deafening.

"Down you go, boy!" Uncle Stan ordered.

"I gotta get Sparky!"

"There’s no time!"

"I can’t leave him out there!" he replied, and rushed out to retrieve the hysterically barking dog.

"C’mon boy!" he screamed as the colossal cone blasted into the hen house.

Sparky slunk down and whimpered. Jeremy grabbed his collar, and pulled as a large chunk of wood crashed to the ground, just missing them. The wind was ferocious, with debris flying everywhere. Uncle Stan met them at the door and scolded Jeremy all the way to the storm cellar.

"Get down there!" he hollered. "Fool boy!"

Jeremy was only a step down when their big red tractor smashed through the side of the barn right toward them. There was terror in Uncle Stan’s eyes as he threw Jeremy into the cellar and dove in. Uncle Stan cried out in pain as he landed hard, trapping Jeremy’s legs. The tractor settled upside down over the cellar entrance.

"Is everyone okay?" asked Aunt Sally.

Uncle Stan winced as he said, "My leg’s broke!"

"I’m okay", Jesse said.

"Me too," said Jeremy, "but I’m stuck."

Jesse helped him get out from under his uncle.

"The twister’s movin’ off," said Uncle Stan. He cringed as Aunt Sally began tying a board to his leg.

"I think I can get out," Jeremy said, and squeezed past the tractor.

Half of the barn was gone. Downed power lines danced. The stalls were broken and empty, and there was a worrisome odor.

Gas! The tractor’s leaking!

He rounded up and saddled a couple horses, tied them to the tractor, slapped their rumps, and yelled, "Pull!"

The horses strained as the ropes tightened, slowly righting the tractor. Gasoline gushed from the split tank, flowed over a dangling power line and exploded into flame.

"We gotta get out NOW!" Jeremy bellowed as he released the horses and rushed through the flaming fuel that poured down the steps.

"Get them blankets and get out of here!" he commanded, "Go straight out, the wall’s gone! Don’t stop for anything!"

Jeremy beat back the flames. Aunt Sally and Jesse grabbed blankets from the shelf, wrapped up, covered their faces and ran.

Uncle Stan looked worried as Jeremy said, "C’mon, I’ll help you." and handed him a handkerchief to cover his face.

"Awright," Uncle Stan said with a sigh.

He grimaced as Jeremy supported him through the searing heat. Aunt Sally had the hose ready and doused them as they emerged.

"Tarnation woman! You could warn a body!" sputtered Uncle Stan.

Everyone settled in the yard covered with blankets, as the engulfed barn burned to the ground. The hen house was completely destroyed, and the roof was gone from the house.

Help began to arrive: the ambulance, fire truck, and neighbors.

The day had started like any other, but it hadn’t gone that way. The sun slowly sank behind the silhouette of a ravaged farm, ending the day the sky fell.

Heart, Mind, and Soul

2005-09-24T22:55:00.000-07:00

To me that describes my writing place. When I sit down to write, the world around me disappears, and a warm feeling wells up from within. Ideas, images, and words begin to flow and intermingle. Soon I am immersed in a whirlwind of impressions and concepts.

Many times I have no idea what I want to write. As I begin, new ideas arrive, and the story flows through me into the computer.