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 T-zero Xpandizine
 The Writer's E-Zine

 

 Produced and published by the members of Writers' Village University since 1998    ISSN 1521-2639       
05 February 2012
Beyond the Textbook The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Beyond the Textbook

Laurie Lupold

Writer's Block


Every writer experiences that time when they place themselves in front of their writing software program and do nothing but stare at the blank sheet of paper on the screen. The more they attempt a creative thought the more frustrated they become when none arise. It appears hopeless and you feel as if you'll never create again.

As writers we can prepare for these unfortunate times. As an admirer of Blue, the star of Blues Clues, I make it a habit to carry my handy dandy notebook. What I write in it at the time might not have any legitimate meaning but later might become a great source for my creativity. The sights, sounds, touches, smells, feelings and thoughts, thoughts, thoughts I develop might not make sense at the time. Later they may become quite productive. Feelings are a way of neutralizing our lives. So many issues go on around us that our emotions become an area of significant energy. Whether it be something as insignificant as the color of a man's hair to the current events surrounding our lives our feelings are of utmost importance.

You might say that thoughts and feelings are much the same, when in fact a thought is something to which we pick randomly without much attention but a feeling is something to which we gave much consideration. Keeping a journal of these expressions gives us some place to turn back to later to maintain activity in our creative experience.

For the poetry writer, might I suggest a play on words? Randomly select from the dictionary a handful of words. Place the words in front of you and create a poem containing each one of the words you picked out. While this might not ensure publishable material, it is a bit amusing to see what you can come up with and it enhances that part of your mind which you use to create. While these are just a couple of the many resources to help break down the block, they are highly productive. Give them a try and let me know how useful they were for you.




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Fiction Short Story

by benning
(with apologies to Andy Griffith)

Burleigh Hunsecker's Christmas or Jingle Hawgs

Well, sir, this one year I'm a-tellin' you about, Ol' Burleigh got some fab'lous idears in his head. Seems he saw an advertisement in some magazine, and it done sparked him. This was gonna be a tree to "beat the band." Did I mention that Ol' Burleigh ain't the brightest bulb on th' tree?

Now Burleigh decided a train would be a nice touch, a-circling 'round the floor under that tree, and not just any ol' train neither. It was gonna be big enough to carry Winston. Winston is one of Burleigh's pet hawgs. Burleigh has a soft spot for hawgs; thinks they's smart and nearly as nice as people. Burleigh likes to play checkers with his hawgs, but that's another story.

So Burleigh bought hisself a set of train-tracks and a big enough train to hold Winston. Took him months to find the durn thing, but find it he did. Now, to add to the beauty of the scene Ol' Burleigh decided he wanted to put candles on the ends of the lower branches, and not just any candles. No, sir. He wanted them funny candles what sputter and don't blow out. Ol' Burleigh figgered they'd stay lit longer and look purtier.

Christmas day in Pine Oil Creek 'n the en-tire population of th' town is there, trudgin' up the long icy road to th' Hunsecker home; all 38 of us 'n all 23 of the Hunseckers. Quite a crowd, it was. Th' womenfolk was all decked out in their finest with their perfume battlin' the aroma of turkey 'n spuds. Th' fellers dressed to th' nines and all of 'em an-ticipatin' the taste of Nana Hunsecker's Sweet Tater Pie. Ever'body gathered 'round the big Hunsecker Family Christmas tree for th' lightin'. Ol' Burleigh had a grin on his face to rival th' Cheddar Cat from "Alice in Wunnerland."

We all hushed up as Burleigh lit them funny candles. We "oohed" 'n we "ahhed" as he plugged in the lights. It was the purtiest tree ever. Then come the "piece-of-resistance:" Ol' Burleigh threw the switch and around the tree came that train, a-tootin' 'n a-puffin' smoke. Ridin' behind the engine was Winston, dressed in a bright red Santa coat with a red stockin' cap on his head, beady little eyes wide in fright.

Now I backed up from that tree when I saw this. A 300-pound hawg ridin' a toy train didn't seem such a good idear right then. Havin' been around for the "Great Popcorn Catastrophe," I knowed a Burleigh Hunsecker bad idear when I saw it. Some of th' others moved back, too. We ain't stupid.

Well, Sir, 'bout the third time around that tree we could see Winston's been thinkin' on this. Hawgs don't much care for trains, much less ridin' on 'em, and Winston weren't no different. Natcherly he decided to hop off. When he did, that curly tail hooked onto that purty garland and whipped it right offen that tree. Them funny candles got stuck in the garland 'n they come down, too, still a-sputterin' 'n a-sparklin'.

Thing is, Winston doesn't like this a-tall and he took off a-squealin' in fright. Needless to say this wasn't what Ol' Burleigh had in mind. He let out a yelp and took off after Winston. The tree, meanwhile, teetered and come down, clippin' Nana Hunsecker on the head. Granny Hunsecker yanked open the front door 'n yelled to Winston 'n out the door he scooted, garland and sputterin' funny candles twistin' away behind him. Now Ol' Burleigh is only a step behind and he flew out th' door right after that hawg. Winston was off th' porch 'n flyin' down the walk when he lost his footin' on the ice 'n started a-skiddin'. Ol' Burleigh hit th' ice and he landed on his rump, careening into a snowdrift.

Now when Winston finally came to a stop he's got this garland snakin' 'round him, them candles jest a-hissin' and a-sputterin', 'n he let out a squeal 'n commenced to scramble to git away. Finally his hooves got some traction 'n he was off 'n runnin' again, headin' down th' only other shoveled walk they is. That'd be the one leadin' to the family outhouse. Ol' Burleigh, meanwhile, got to his feet 'n wobbled into th' same walkway.

Now Ol' Burleigh had snow meltin' into his eyes, so LORD only knows what he thought he seen, but he let out a scream and slip-slided down that walkway toward the outhouse. He banged into the door and tried t' open it, but you know how them door latches are in winter. They stick. Winston has a head of steam goin' and he followed right after Ol' Burleigh. Now, a 300-pound hawg takes some stoppin' even on dry ground; on ice there's no stoppin' him. Winston rammed right into Ol' Burleigh, they smashed right through that door and disappeared with a squeal and a howl!

We all heard the splash. We could hear Winston squealin' and Ol' Burleigh bellowin' down there. Musta been cold, not to mention evil-smellin'. I noticed that garland was still stickin' out the doorway with them funny candles still a-sputterin' like crazy. Then it got pulled down. I reckon with all that splashin' around the gasses down there musta churned up some,' cause it weren't a second or two later that they was a "Whoomp!" and a "Whoosh!" and that outhouse plumb disappeared in a cloud of foul-smellin' smoke.

Granny Hunsecker finally caught sight of Ol' Burleigh up in the big Spruce tree by the road. Winston was up there, too, sittin' on top of him. Burleigh had his eyebrows singed off and Winston's tail weren't curly no more.

Now, I'm pleased to report that we all enjoyed Christmas supper at the Hunsecker Homestead that year. The turkey was baked to a fine golden brown, moist and right tasty. The spuds were mashed to a "fare-thee-well" and smooth as could be. Toppin' it off was Nana Hunseckers Sweet Tater Pie that kinda melted sweetly on th' tongue. Yessir, it was a fine meal.

And Ol' Burleigh? Well, Granny Hunsecker made him stay out on th' porch and eat his supper there. The Hunseckers might not be the brightest folks around, but they are jest about the nicest.

Y'all have a Happy Holiday, hear?


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

by Jack Herrmann

Of Mice and Melody

The three young Mouse sisters - Moira, Molly and Muggins - lived in the wall between Beckie's bedroom and her kitchen. They admired Beckie very much because she was kind to all small creatures, and because she liked to sing, and because she dressed so classy.

For weeks now the three Mouse sisters had been emulating Beckie. They practiced being kind. They sewed tiny dresses. They rehearsed their own singing; and they had become quite good at it too. So good in fact, that they had found courage to sneak away to the church four blocks away to practice with the choir. They would hide under the chair of the Lead Soprano and blend their tiny, clear voices with that of the lady who sat above them.

The minister and the conductor and the other people in the choir were amazed at how beautiful the voice of the Lead Soprano had recently become. It was said she sounded like four voices, not just one, like delicate bells all perfectly pitched and all in absolute harmony. It was said to be "miraculous!"

At 5:00 PM on Christmas Eve the three Mouse sisters began preparing themselves for the most special evening of the year - the church concert of carols. They fussed with their neck-bows getting them precisely right. They also helped each other trim their whiskers correctly and smooth their fur properly so Becky would be proud of them if she were to see them.

At 6:00 PM they happily set out for the church hoping that perhaps (if they were lucky enough) Beckie would be in the congregation to hear them sing; for each agreed they would sing this night for Beckie alone. With this in mind the little mice-girls skipped along, tuning their tiny vocal cords as they went.

At 6:05 PM they rounded the corner at the end of the block and bumped into Fred the cat, which had not had a morsel to eat in over a week. The three little mice squeaked in terror and Moira ran left and was squashed by Fred's hind foot. Molly ran right and was speared by a claw on Fred's front paw. Muggins froze in absolute terror and was bitten in half.

In a fraction of a second it was all over. A starving Fred wasted no time in toying with his supper (as he usually was given to do) and before the three tiny squeaks could join in harmony, Fred walked away -- full and thankful, meowing to himself, "Ah yes, there is indeed a Santa." Of course, the souls of the three Mouse sisters -- having no liking whatsoever of cat tummies -- departed the little bodies the instant this trouble began. They floated upwards tearfully complaining that now they couldn't sing for Beckie.

They were met quite soon by angels who helped them straighten their gossamer dresses and re-tie their spiritual bows and smooth down the rumples in their ethereal fur to comfort them and ease the shock of their upsetting experience.

Then God said to them, "Welcome to Heaven, little people. I'm sorry I had to call you before you were able to sing in church; but I needed you now to help my angels in their own choir. This is a very important night because the "Concert of Heavenly Souls" is happening. The choir is badly in need of bell-voices and the fine, tight harmonic achievement you three have so wonderfully developed. So please, sing for me!" Which they did:

"Chestnuts roasting on an open fire
Beckie picking at her toes.
Although its been said
Many times, many ways,
Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas...
dear Beckie
We-ee Lo-uh-ve You-ou-ou!"

And the Heavenly Choir above was marvelously fulfilled, as it had never been before. Yet, far below, the Lead Soprano sounded quite ordinarily thin. Still, no one noticed, for the earthbound choir somehow seemed "enhanced." And, for some strange reason too, Beckie felt warm — and loved — and so very happy.

And Moira and Molly and Muggins knew it.

(c) Copyright, Jack Herrmann, 1998, 2002

Now retired, Jack Herrmann lives in Tsawwassen, BC with his wife, Sandie. He spends his time writing odd things, poking his nose where it doesn't belong, riding his scooter terrorizing motorists and small dogs and longing for the Alberta ranch lands.


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Fiction Short Story

by John Tyson

Mother Agnes's Christmas Break

It was Miss Lovejoy who came up with the idea at the monthly meeting of the St. Saviour's Church parish entertainments committee.

"Me? Dress up as Father Christmas?"

"Why not, Henry?"

"For one thing, I don't have any whiskers."

"You can always put on false whiskers."

"It's not the same. Some little tyke is sure to give them a tug."

"That's always a risk in these ventures."

"Anyway, what about old George Marshall, he's got plenty of whiskers."

"Henry! You know how George -- well -- smells."

"Well, that's only because of his prize Suffolk saddlebacks. They like a lot of fussing."

"That's what I mean. We can't have the fairy grotto at the Christmas fete smelling of pigs, can we?"

"He can have a bath, can't he?"

"You know it's ingrained in him, Henry. It would take a month of bathing to get that smell out of him. Any way he's too thin." She looked at Henry's tummy, "... and you're so, well, cuddly. Why you'd be a natural for the part with those twinkly eyes and rosy cheeks ... and the children do so like you."

Which was why Henry was sitting on a golden coloured armchair surrounded by young ladies in green tights, red tunics and Robin Hood hats all arranged on a trailer pulled by Farmer Dodd's pair of shire horses, Hansel and Gretel, who each had papiér maché antlers fixed to their noble heads.

They paraded along the high street towards the church hall to the sound of the Prestwick Colliery Silver Prize Brass Band. Resplendent in their royal blue and gold marching uniforms, they played "Entry of the Gladiators" as they preceded Henry and his entourage. Along the side of the road stood the families from the town waving flags, youths catcalling and throwing pennies, and the local cubs and guides who rattled boxes under the noses of everyone as they ran alongside Henry's cortége.

Once at the St. Saviour's church hall the whole procession stopped and the verger, who stood there in the guise of a medieval merchant, pushed a set of steps to the side of the cart. Gold paper and a red carpet covered the steps.

Henry felt quite important as he sat and waited while his elves preceded him down the steps. Then he stood up to go down the steps himself.

At that moment a small excitable Staffordshire bull terrier on the opposite side of the road spotted the Vicar's cat, Magdalen, preening herself on the low red brick wall that fronted the church hall. With a snarl he slipped his owner's grasp and with lead flying behind him, he shot across the road right between the legs of Hansel and Gretel, all the time making a noise like a demented diesel engine. This caused both Hansel and Gretel to abandon their accustomed calm, rear up, then head pell-mell along the road dragging Henry and his cart behind them. Their sudden departure scattered the members of the Prestwick Colliery Silver Prize Brass Band to all points of the compass.

As the cart jolted, Henry sat back down in his armchair with a bump. He hung on for dear life to the chair arms as Hansel and Gretel, completely out of control, careered along the high street, through the suburbs and out of the small town in to the green countryside that surrounded it.

Henry was vaguely aware of sirens going off behind him as they took up the pursuit. Eventually he got hold of the reins and gained control of the two horses. They came to a stop and began chewing the grass at the side of the road outside a large house. Miraculously their antlers had remained intact on their heads. Henry slipped off the cart and walked to the main gate of the house. It was shut firmly. A notice board was inside, partially covered in foliage but he could just make out the name "Saint Ursula's".

A small face poked through the gates and said accusingly, "Yore early!"

Henry looked at the face. It had determination written all over it. "What do you mean, "early"?"

"You isn't s'posed ter be 'ere till Christmus day!"

Henry, not wishing to dash the little fellow's faith in Father Christmas, decided that he had to stay in role. "Do you know, I thought my calendar was a wee bit fast! Never mind I'm here and that's the main thing. Er, can I have a word with your Mummy or Daddy?"

"I'm a norphin."

"A norphin?"

"Yeah. Ain't got no parints."

"No parents? Who looks after you then?"

"You want Mother Agnes. We calls her Maggie. She's in charge around here."

"Do you know, I thought you were in charge!"

"Garn! Yore 'avin me on."

"I suppose I must be," said Henry with a laugh.

"Shall I get 'er then?"

"I suppose you'd better."

Mother Agnes turned out to be a jolly little nun with a face like a cherub and a permanent smile on her face. "Why bless my soul Saint Nick, you are indeed early."

"I did try to explain to your charge that my calendar was a little fast."

Her laughter rang out as she unlocked the door set in the large gate. "Do come in Father Christmas."

"I wondered, could I have a word in private?"

"Why of course. You'd better come into my office."

Mother Agnes led Father Henry Christmas up the driveway to a large gaunt Victorian house, through an imposing oak door, evidently of great age and came into a vestibule that smelt of paraffin wax polish.

"In here please." They entered a sparsely furnished room that contained two hardback chairs, an oak desk, a grey filing cabinet and an old Underwood typewriter. Henry then explained to her what had happened.

"Do you have a telephone here?"

"Of course we do." She opened a drawer and took out a modern cordless phone. It appeared quite incongruous in this otherwise spartan study.

Henry punched in the number of his friend, Archie.

"Where are you Henry? The whole town's looking for you. They found your cart down a country lane with the two horses quite happily grazing on the grass verges, but no sign of you."

"Where am I? I'm in a big house." Henry looked at Mother Agnes for enlightenment.

"Why, you are in Saint Ursula's Orphanage."

Henry relayed the message to Archie.

"I'll send someone up there for you."

Henry put down the phone and turned to Mother Agnes. "An orphanage? In this day and age?"

"Very much so I'm afraid. With the materialistic society we now have I'm afraid Almighty God has been put on the back burner and his little children out of sight and out of mind. I fear that in the worst cases, children today are now at the most, chattels and at the least, an inconvenience."

"That is so very sad Mother. How many kiddies do you have here?"

"We have thirty two."

"Who pays for them?"

"We get money from various charities, but we cannot replace the family, I'm afraid, especially at Christmastide. It is a very busy time for me and my staff. We haven't had a Christmas break for many years."

Just then they heard a loud knock on the office door. It was the "norphin."

"There's a geezer out 'ere wot's cum fer Farver Christmus."

"Show him in, Percy."

Archie Fergus's ruddy features peered around the door. "There you are." He looked at Percy... "er, Father Christmas."

***

Henry entered the St. Saviour's church hall to a fanfare from the cornets. They applauded him all the way to the stage. He took his place in front of the microphone.

"A small boy in the front spoke to his father in a loud stage whisper. "Is that really Father Christmas?"

"Yes son, it is," said his father.

"Ladies and Gentlemen. As you may have heard, I've had a somewhat unexpected experience."

"Yeah, that was Ted Sprogg's little dog, Gnasher, that started it all too," said a voice from the back of the hall."

The crowd murmured in agreement.

"Be that as it may," said Henry, " I have discovered that just a few miles from this town we have an orphanage run by Mother Agnes, full of children who have no families to go to this Christmas. Why don't all you families with children give the good Mother Agnes a Christmas holiday, by each adopting an orphan over Christmas and the New Year? After all, a small child was born two thousand years ago in a stable because his family had nowhere to stay. In a sense, these kids are just like that infant, they have nowhere to stay -- except the orphanage."

Henry sat and smiled, as he heard a murmur of approval. Mother Agnes got her Christmas break.


(c) Copyright October 31, 2002 John Tyson


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

My name is Helen V. Lundt.

I have always enjoyed writing, and had a few articles published in The Coachmen Magazine many years ago.

I am a retired hospital nurse, with almost twenty-eight years on the job. My children, four daughters, are grown and married. They have blessed me with seven grandchildren. Unfortunately, I seldom see them, since they live so far away. We do keep in touch via phone and e-mail, however.

My husband and I like traveling in our old thirty-one foot motorhome, towing the old car that he loves. We spend much of the winter in Florida, after the Christmas holiday. Our winters here in upstate NY are too frigid and snowy for us as we get a little older.

My inspiration for this story came from sitting here at the computer, looking out the glass door to the deck, and watching the first heavy snow fall. It just poured out of me from there on. I hope you like it.

The Orphans and the UFO

by Helen V. Lundt

Snow fell in crystallized forms, sparkling its way down. It was a beautiful, still night. The little boy and girl that ran from the orphanage came to a group of trees and stopped. Could they be dreaming? Was this real? Glancing back to the building they had run from, they knew they could not return. The beatings and hunger were enough to keep them where they were. Mary shivered with fear and uncertainty, as she held tightly to her brother's hand.

"Johnny I'm afraid," she whispered. "What is that in the field?"

Peeking around the trees, Johnny said, "It looks like a flying saucer, but I can't be sure." The object was very large, round, and painted red and white.

Little men dressed in red fluffy suits carried white boxes out of the saucer, piling them high in various sleighs. They sang in unison as they worked, marching to the beat of the music.

"HO HO HO," the children could hear echoing from within the saucer. It was very dark, but the area they watched was brightly lit. The rays of light warmed the children. They were mesmerized, watching the activity.

"HO HO HO," again the deep bass voice from within the saucer. Suddenly, at the door there stood a large man, at least the largest man there.

"HO HO HO, let's fill them to go-o-o-o. There's wee ones awaiting our gifts, don't you know."

The children's eyes were locked upon this Santa, a smaller one than they had seen before. Now he turned toward them.

"Come in, come in, children. We do love company, don't we?"

"Yes yes yes," the workers replied. "Welcome. Come and see us."

The children held hands and slowly walked toward the ship. Everyone called out to them, making them feel very much at home.

"So you're the lost orphans," Santa observed. "Well, you're not lost anymore. We know of a man and his wife who are crying now, for not having the children they desire. Come along Mary. Come along Johnny."

He knew their names! They looked at him wide-eyed and went with the Santa.

The two children began to relax. They watched the joyful activity as the sleighs were filled with gifts. "Look at the fun they have," Mary whispered to her brother. "I think we'll be all right here."

"Yes, Mary. At least we won't be in that dark room scrubbing floors. Let's stay. I think Mother would want us to."

"Hooray hooray, the children will stay."

Magically, they were seated at a table with hamburgers and chocolate milk in front of them. Yes, they were hungry. Crunchy red apples finished their lunch.

"Look Mary, there must be hundreds of sleighs. They're almost all full, already."

The man came to them to guide them once more...

"HO HO HO, now you will go,
Over the clouds, where down below,
You'll find the people we told you of.
They'll see you by their Christmas tree.
You will be part of a family you will love."

They hopped into a sleigh, held on tight and watched the others in amazement. One by one the sleighs took off into the sky, their jet streams white in the darkness. These white streams made patterns; this way to France, that way to Greece, another path to Canada, and to The United States. All over the world, there were white paths in the sky, made by the little sleighs.

"Oh," Mary snuggled within the blankets, holding Johnny's hand tightly.

They fell asleep, hearing in the distance, "HO HO HO. See them all go."

The orphans knew this was magic, as they woke up. There they were, lying under a sparkling Christmas tree. Voices in the distance came steadily closer.

"Oh Dear, look. It's a miracle." Mrs. Whitney couldn't believe her eyes. "Aren't they the most beautiful children you've ever seen? I prayed for a child, and look what the Lord left for us."

There didn't seem to be any other explanation for this blessed event, and the Whitneys continued to believe in the Lord's miracle. As though they had always been together, the children and the Whitneys prayed to God, giving thanks for this great day.

Then they laughed and looked at each other, hugging all around. Tears of happiness flowed.

Outside, a large object flew by and they heard in the distance, "HO HO HO." The sky lit up with a great white path behind, as the object flew North.

Now they all had someone to love. They were indeed, a family. This was the best Christmas ever.

(c) Copyright 2002 Helen V. Lundt


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Healthy Horizons The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Healthy Horizons

Laurie Lupold

You Have the Right...

When we are ill be it mentally or physically we put faith in our physicians to prescribe for us the necessary medications to make us feel better. I put such faith in my doctor beginning eight years ago. For those eight years I gained terrible amounts of weight and developed a severely discomforting case of tremors. Tremors which became so intense I couldn't hold a cup of coffee without spilling it. I continued to bring this to my doctor's attention. His response was to put me on an additional medication to control the tremors. The medication failed.

This past several weeks I have been off all medications due to a missed appointment as a result of a severe illness. My tremors have decreased immensely. In fact, the only time they are noticeable is when I am excessively nervous about something which to me is a substantial improvement.

While I could call in and have the doctor write me out scripts for my medications until I am able to see him, I have to ask myself is it worth going through those traumatic tremors again? My reply would have to be no.

So I sit here at risk of a severe downfall because the doctor doesn't consider my needs as an emergency as a result of my questioning the quality of the medication he prescribed. To me this is unjust treatment. To me this doctor is suggesting that I don't have the right to govern my own body. The tremors in themselves are not my only argument. It has been brought to my attention by other mental health professionals that their opinion was that I was being over medicated because very often I would not respond to life around me, I would simply stare off into space.

Now that I have discontinued the medication I am more alert, responsive and in control of what needs to be done. While the medication used to treat my condition of bipolar might have decreased the severity of the mood swings it was not as successful as I'd hope it to be given the side effects. Other medication, which included an anxiety medication, depression medication, and sleeping aide were also unsuccessful. Why should we have to take medications which show us no credibility?

The answer is we shouldn't. Only we know what progresses within our own bodies and our doctors should be adherent to our responses to the treatment they suggest. We must take it upon ourselves to insist that they hear what we are saying to them and respond in a caring and professional manner.

Be prepared when next you visit your doctor. Talk to others in your situation about their treatment and its success. Research any forms of medication which others might suggest. Go in prepared with a summary of these medications and suggest that one of these medications might better suit your needs.

If, at this point the doctor is still unresponsive to your needs you have every right to terminate your relationship and find another health care professional. Hopefully it will not come to this but it is your body and you have the right to feel healthy and whole with it. Though no one can guarantee happiness, having a medication that works will certainly guarantee better health. Myself, I'd sure be happier if I was healthier.



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Karen's Keynotes The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Karen's Keynotes

Karen MacLeod

Working with Submission Guidelines

In my earlier column, I mentioned the publisher's submission guidelines. Margaret Carr suggested I cover these ideas for this column.

MARGARET WROTE --
"Rules are made to be broken." This is one of the most common irritants. It is used to justify just about anything -- sending attachments, submitting previously published work, ignoring/ignorance of basic writing techniques or whatever the writer just doesn't want to be bothered with. Frequently what they don't want to be bothered with is finding and reading the guidelines. Since the guidelines have been linked from every month's main page for two and a half years at least...

Most publishers would take your manuscript and put it in "the circular file" (trash can) if you don't follow their guidelines. Why should they bother if you aren't conscientious enough to investigate what they require, and take the time to supply them with material that meets that requirement?

If the publisher asks for an exclusive submission, submit just that. However, let them know they have a limited length of time, probably three months, to get back to you if they are interested in the work. If they are not interested within the time you have offered, then you are free to market your manuscript elsewhere. It is embarrassing for an acquisitions editor to be enthusiastic about a project for her publishing house, only to find the author has submitted it (contrary to submission guidelines) to many other places, thus, not keeping it available to this editor.

It's important for you to follow all the specifications about submissions, so the professionals won't be turned off by your presentation. Agents and editors of larger publishing houses usually have hundreds of manuscripts sitting on their desks for consideration at any one time. You don't necessarily require an agent to handle your book deal, especially if you do follow the publisher's submission guidelines.

The opening paragraphs of your manuscript should be able to reach the reader, and grab them forcefully into your story. Don't open your work with backstory. If you get the acquisitions editor's attention, they will ask for more from you.

Keep a notebook of which manuscript you have submitted to which publisher. Include any and all contact information in that ledger for each manuscript. You can easily track the status of your work through the pipeline at various publishers this way. You can then do query letter follow-ups if you don't hear from the publisher within the months you have allocated to leave the manuscript with them. While waiting to hear, don't sit around and do nothing, begin on your next project!

In my role as editor, I keep a computer folder for each book I have edited, or am working on, if the work reached me electronically. I retain that material until I know for certain that the book has been published. Usually authors are so proud that the book has been released, they tell me. Only at that time, do I eliminate the folder from the computer.

Elizabeth Caldwell (SACRED HONOR, previously mentioned in the November column) wrote me to say: "I just wanted you to know that Publish America is taking a chance on Sacred Honor and publishing it. I'll keep you up to date."

Needless to say, I'm thrilled for Elizabeth. I'm also glad I kept her folder, as she was looking for her "Timeline" and could not find it. I had it, already edited, and mailed it back, saving her many hours of work. Until she has the published work in her hands, I will retain everything we had discussed, each draft and portion of her work.

I also keep a conventional file folder for each manuscript I may have received in paper that I am responsible for. The same personal rules that I created for my electronic submissions, apply also to anything that was submitted by conventional mail.

MARGARET STATES --
Then there's the opposite approach; analyzing the guidelines and back issues in excruciating detail looking for loopholes. "See! See! See! In March 1998 you published..." Can't help but wonder what those writers could accomplish if they spent the time writing instead of justifying.

Guidelines tend to change with time. The guidelines I created for A COMPANION IN ZEOR, my Sime~Gen fanzine, back in 1978, surely did not apply to website publication, electronic submission, or the changes in copyright law.

Take guidelines as they are presented in the most current version. If something seems unclear to you, prior to submitting material, contact the publisher. Ask for clarification of the specific section that puzzles you. Be as concise and clear in your question as possible. You might even wish to include a self- addressed, stamped, envelope (SASE) for the information you have asked for.

A writer's time should be productively spent creating their work, not tearing apart guidelines. NBI has changed manuscript formatting guidelines since the first book I edited for them eighteen months ago. Accept that "old news" is just that, and continue.

We all have our "day jobs," be they continuing our education, raising a family, earning a paycheck. If you love writing, the time you take to devote to your craft is likely "stolen" from somewhere else. Pondering over guidelines will take away those precious minutes from your writing, giving you less time to produce the self imposed "page a day" or more that you've set for yourself.

If you follow submission criteria as supplied, you'll be less likely of receiving a rejection letter. Publishers tend to look favorably on those authors who take the time to submit that which the publishing house is looking for, both in content, and format. They want to accept your offering because they are searching for good books to publish. Give them what they ask for. It is a perfect door-opener for the acquisitions editor to consider the selection of your book above all the others that are in the submissions pile.
 


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Fiction Short Story

by benning
(with apologies to Andy Griffith)

Burleigh Hunsecker's Christmas or Jingle Hawgs

Well, sir, this one year I'm a-tellin' you about, Ol' Burleigh got some fab'lous idears in his head. Seems he saw an advertisement in some magazine, and it done sparked him. This was gonna be a tree to "beat the band." Did I mention that Ol' Burleigh ain't the brightest bulb on th' tree?

Now Burleigh decided a train would be a nice touch, a-circling 'round the floor under that tree, and not just any ol' train neither. It was gonna be big enough to carry Winston. Winston is one of Burleigh's pet hawgs. Burleigh has a soft spot for hawgs; thinks they's smart and nearly as nice as people. Burleigh likes to play checkers with his hawgs, but that's another story.

So Burleigh bought hisself a set of train-tracks and a big enough train to hold Winston. Took him months to find the durn thing, but find it he did. Now, to add to the beauty of the scene Ol' Burleigh decided he wanted to put candles on the ends of the lower branches, and not just any candles. No, sir. He wanted them funny candles what sputter and don't blow out. Ol' Burleigh figgered they'd stay lit longer and look purtier.

Christmas day in Pine Oil Creek 'n the en-tire population of th' town is there, trudgin' up the long icy road to th' Hunsecker home; all 38 of us 'n all 23 of the Hunseckers. Quite a crowd, it was. Th' womenfolk was all decked out in their finest with their perfume battlin' the aroma of turkey 'n spuds. Th' fellers dressed to th' nines and all of 'em an-ticipatin' the taste of Nana Hunsecker's Sweet Tater Pie. Ever'body gathered 'round the big Hunsecker Family Christmas tree for th' lightin'. Ol' Burleigh had a grin on his face to rival th' Cheddar Cat from "Alice in Wunnerland."

We all hushed up as Burleigh lit them funny candles. We "oohed" 'n we "ahhed" as he plugged in the lights. It was the purtiest tree ever. Then come the "piece-of-resistance:" Ol' Burleigh threw the switch and around the tree came that train, a-tootin' 'n a-puffin' smoke. Ridin' behind the engine was Winston, dressed in a bright red Santa coat with a red stockin' cap on his head, beady little eyes wide in fright.

Now I backed up from that tree when I saw this. A 300-pound hawg ridin' a toy train didn't seem such a good idear right then. Havin' been around for the "Great Popcorn Catastrophe," I knowed a Burleigh Hunsecker bad idear when I saw it. Some of th' others moved back, too. We ain't stupid.

Well, Sir, 'bout the third time around that tree we could see Winston's been thinkin' on this. Hawgs don't much care for trains, much less ridin' on 'em, and Winston weren't no different. Natcherly he decided to hop off. When he did, that curly tail hooked onto that purty garland and whipped it right offen that tree. Them funny candles got stuck in the garland 'n they come down, too, still a-sputterin' 'n a-sparklin'.

Thing is, Winston doesn't like this a-tall and he took off a-squealin' in fright. Needless to say this wasn't what Ol' Burleigh had in mind. He let out a yelp and took off after Winston. The tree, meanwhile, teetered and come down, clippin' Nana Hunsecker on the head. Granny Hunsecker yanked open the front door 'n yelled to Winston 'n out the door he scooted, garland and sputterin' funny candles twistin' away behind him. Now Ol' Burleigh is only a step behind and he flew out th' door right after that hawg. Winston was off th' porch 'n flyin' down the walk when he lost his footin' on the ice 'n started a-skiddin'. Ol' Burleigh hit th' ice and he landed on his rump, careening into a snowdrift.

Now when Winston finally came to a stop he's got this garland snakin' 'round him, them candles jest a-hissin' and a-sputterin', 'n he let out a squeal 'n commenced to scramble to git away. Finally his hooves got some traction 'n he was off 'n runnin' again, headin' down th' only other shoveled walk they is. That'd be the one leadin' to the family outhouse. Ol' Burleigh, meanwhile, got to his feet 'n wobbled into th' same walkway.

Now Ol' Burleigh had snow meltin' into his eyes, so LORD only knows what he thought he seen, but he let out a scream and slip-slided down that walkway toward the outhouse. He banged into the door and tried t' open it, but you know how them door latches are in winter. They stick. Winston has a head of steam goin' and he followed right after Ol' Burleigh. Now, a 300-pound hawg takes some stoppin' even on dry ground; on ice there's no stoppin' him. Winston rammed right into Ol' Burleigh, they smashed right through that door and disappeared with a squeal and a howl!

We all heard the splash. We could hear Winston squealin' and Ol' Burleigh bellowin' down there. Musta been cold, not to mention evil-smellin'. I noticed that garland was still stickin' out the doorway with them funny candles still a-sputterin' like crazy. Then it got pulled down. I reckon with all that splashin' around the gasses down there musta churned up some,' cause it weren't a second or two later that they was a "Whoomp!" and a "Whoosh!" and that outhouse plumb disappeared in a cloud of foul-smellin' smoke.

Granny Hunsecker finally caught sight of Ol' Burleigh up in the big Spruce tree by the road. Winston was up there, too, sittin' on top of him. Burleigh had his eyebrows singed off and Winston's tail weren't curly no more.

Now, I'm pleased to report that we all enjoyed Christmas supper at the Hunsecker Homestead that year. The turkey was baked to a fine golden brown, moist and right tasty. The spuds were mashed to a "fare-thee-well" and smooth as could be. Toppin' it off was Nana Hunseckers Sweet Tater Pie that kinda melted sweetly on th' tongue. Yessir, it was a fine meal.

And Ol' Burleigh? Well, Granny Hunsecker made him stay out on th' porch and eat his supper there. The Hunseckers might not be the brightest folks around, but they are jest about the nicest.

Y'all have a Happy Holiday, hear?


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Poetics

Louise E. Sawyer

Create a Magnetic Poetry Kit

Have you ever longingly looked at magnetic poetry kits in your favourite bookstore? Or do you need a creative idea for a gift this holiday season? If so, it is easy to make a magnetic poetry kit for yourself or for a loved one.

I use a metal cabinet to play with my words. Of course, anything metal will work. A neat gift idea is to put the words in a small metal box. If the lid of the box is big enough, your friend can use the inside of the lid to create poems.

What You Need to Get Started:

1. Magnets

Go to your favourite craft store or the craft section of your favourite department store, and ask about their magnet products. Most stores have sheets of magnets and rolls of magnets. I've used both kinds. Usually the sheets are thinner than the rolls. I prefer the sheets, which are painted white. You don't need the self-sticking kind. [They are excellent for making photo magnets for the refrigerator]

2. Tin or metal box

If you have a cookie tin which you would like to recycle, this is a good opportunity to do so. Also, many dollar stores have metal boxes. They usually have scenes on the outside and are often available in a number of shapes and sizes.

3. Metal board as background (optional)

People use all kinds of backgrounds for making magnetic poems. Here are some ideas, but you'll likely come up with others. I use a large metal cabinet in my office area. Sometimes I've used a TV tray. The lid of the metal box is another handy background. A metal needlework board works great.

4. Creative ideas for lists of words

You might wish to focus on one theme for your words. However, to get you started, here is a list of common words to consider. You won't need them all for a beginning kit. You'll likely think of others I've missed. To start, aim to make 100 words. But you'll probably want 200 before you are finished. Of course, the number is limitless, and you can always add to your kit.

  • Creative verbs: sing, dance, paint, write, create, draw, play, mimic, act, dream.
  • Active verbs: jump, startle, race, run, skip, drive, stand, blow, shout, bite, wave.
  • Body verbs: yawn, bite, eat, listen, see, smell, taste, touch, hear, breathe.
  • Sensing verbs: moan, groan, bang, bump, cry, tingle, shiver, clang, laugh.
  • Feelings: sad, joyful, happy, angry, loving, desperate, hopeful, peaceful, grieving.
  • Sensing nouns: velvet, satin, perfume, bell, incense, herbs, vanilla, chocolate.
  • Body nouns: hand, arm, fingers, head, throat, heart, body, leg, foot, toes.
  • Connectors: and, or, but, as, when, like, is.
  • Prepositions: in, to, of, into, for, by, at, on, upon, before, under, with.
  • Articles and Adjectives: the, a, an, some, few, many, great, small, large, soft.
  • Colours: yellow, orange, red, pink, purple, blue, navy, aqua, green, brown, black, white, violet, crimson.
  • People: boy, girl, woman, man, baby, mother, father, son, daughter, aunt, uncle, parent, grandmother, grandfather, friend, partner, wife, husband.
  • Food: apple, pear, cherries, juice, milk, coffee, crackers, fish, tofu, bread, cereal, oats, rice, carrots, broccoli, peas, corn, tea.
  • Clothes: dress, shoes, jacket, pants, skirt, hat, blouse, slacks, suit, socks.
  • Household: cup, plate, bowl, knife, fork, spoon, broom, laundry, garbage, hammer.
  • Furniture: chair, table, cabinet, bookcase, bed, mattress, desk, couch, lamp
  • Pronouns: I, we, he, she, they, me, them, him, her
  • Jobs: writer, policeman, salesman, nurse, detective, therapist, actress, teacher, artist
  • Animals: dog, cat, hamster, bird, fox, sheep, snake, goat, horse, butterfly, gull
  • Nature: ocean, sea, forest, woods, trees, leaves, flowers, stones, water, rainbow, stars, oak, pine, rock, mountain, meadow, hill.
  • Weather: sun, wind, raindrops, storm, hot, cold, hurricane, typhoon, snowy.
  • Seasons: summer, fall, autumn, winter, spring.
  • Time of Day: dawn, sunset, dusk, morning, noon, afternoon, evening, night.
  • Buildings: home, house, tent, office, store, bank, jail, prison, mansion
  • Fantasy: dragon, angel, beast, elf, fairy, witch, monster, castle, knight, princess.

Don't forget to include a few special interest words and holiday words. Also, you can have fun writing lists of rhyming words, such as bird and word.

5. List of Letters: (optional)

You may wish to make a list of single letters of the alphabet to cut out, so that if you or your friend can't find the word you need, then you can add letters together to make words. Some letters, which may prove helpful are: a, e, h, i, l, m, n, o, r, s, t, u, w, y.

How to Make the Kit:

1. Cut strips of magnets 1/2 inch wide. Use kitchen or craft scissors.

2. Hand print words on the strips, leaving 1/2 inch between the words. An ordinary ballpoint pen, even pencil, will work. But you could get fancy and try various kinds of pens with different colours of ink, calligraphy fonts, etc. Markers will work on some surfaces.

3. Cut the words apart. Also, write a few letters and cut them out.

4. Try them out on the inside of the lid of the metal box, or on whatever metal background you wish. You're all ready to take one of the poetry courses! Or create a class of your own.

As you play around with the words and create first lines for your poems, or parts of poems, you'll find other words you want to make. If you have made letters, you can use them to fill in until you make other words.

5. Put them in the tin box.

6. If you are sending this kit to someone as a gift, you might want to write a card to accompany it, in order to explain what the kit is, and how to use it. You might even want to include a few blank magnetic pieces, so that your friend can add her own word interests.

With a little creative brainstorming, I'm sure you can find other ways to play with magnetic words, as well as writing poetry. Use a metal cabinet near your computer to create plot sentences for your novel; log line for your screenplay; first sentence of a scene; and prompters to get you started writing anything at all.

Can't wait to play?

Here is a click and drag diversion at Electro Magnetic Poetry:

http://www.phys.ocean.dal.ca/~dwalsh/myPoetry.html

Enjoy!

Louise E. Sawyer


copyright (c) 2002 Louise E. Sawyer

Louise lives in Victoria, B.C. and has always had a love for words. Poetry is the genre which often naturally appears when she writes in her journal or on her computer, but also as she plays with magnetic words on her metal cabinet.

 

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Poetics Presents

Carol Malley

Carol is a lifetime member of WVU and a facilitator for several poetry courses. She is a former poetry editor of Peregrine literary journal.

A CHRISTMAS WISH

May you dance with Christmas words
your whole long life through.

May the season's spices spill
like salt to heal old wounds.

Let joy carol through your heart
pushing sorrows past remembrance.

May cranberry dreams intoxicate
while songs fill heads and stockings.

Let eggnog beliefs fall like snow
in the new and every year.

Let hope be born upon this day.
May we all be poemed with love.

Copyright (c) 2002 Carol Malley


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Signs of Life

Nancy L. Horner

Stranded

"Why don't you just get some information on the area and relax, today?" Those were my husband's words as he prepared to leave for the conference he was attending in Swindon, in England's Wiltshire region. After a full day in our own time zone, followed by a 9-hour flight and a drive through the English countryside, we were completely exhausted by the time we hit pillows on the previous night. I suppose he assumed I was jet-lagged.

Left behind in the hotel with a map that had a yellow highlighted line telling me how to walk to the town centre of Swindon while he drove the rental car to his conference, I pondered only briefly before grabbing my backpack and camera and heading out the door.

I would go gather information on the area, sure; but since the trip was going to be a short one, I felt like I had to make the most of my time. My British friend, Martin, had given me some wonderful suggestions for sightseeing. All I had to do was figure out how to arrive in those historic places.

Armed with my map, and loaded down with a heavy camera, light raincoat, umbrella, a bottle of water and granola bars, I began to walk the mile-and-a-half to town to visit the Information Centre. The terrain reminded me of San Francisco, but the trip to town was, fortunately, mostly downhill.

At the Information Centre, I found bus and train schedules and settled on a trip to Avebury to see its stone circle, followed by Devizes. I asked for help reading the baffling bus schedule and locating the station, then traipsed over to the wrong bus slot. Fortunately, I was quite close and the people I questioned were willing to help me locate my bus.

I boarded the correct bus, made a fool of myself trying to ask for a round-trip ticket using the correct terminology, but unable to remember Martin's advice (the correct word is "return", not "round-trip") and headed to Avebury. In Avebury, the weather was incredible with a sky speckled in fair-weather clouds, a cool, gusty wind I was told was the leftover from "your American hurricane" and a springy warmth. I walked around, admiring the ancient stone circle––much like Stonehenge but on a grander scale and with more pieces missing––exploring around the village and in the museum, and hiking up a hill to view the circles from above, accompanied by some rather friendly sheep.

By the time I finished snapping photos in Avebury, cloud cover had rolled in. I waited for the bus to Devizes and climbed in just in time to miss the rain. So far, my first day of touring the British countryside had been a breeze.

Devizes turned out to be another matter entirely.

When the bus unloaded us into the town centre of Devizes, I realized I had no map of Devizes and no idea which way to head in order to locate its castle. Where was the Information Centre? It should be nearby. I followed the crowd to what turned out to be the main shopping area. Still no Tourist Information Centre, so I did what most women do when faced with such dilemmas––I went shopping.

The plan was to make my way back to the bus stop in time to catch a bus that would return me to Swindon in time for David's return to the hotel, around 6:00 p.m. Close to the correct time, I made my way to the bus stop. My poor Southern feet, accustomed to hopping in cars, were killing me. So, I sat just behind and to the right of the bus kiosk, on a small set of concrete stairs. To my right and left, teenagers were milling about, shoving each other, laughing and having a general good time. I made the irrational assumption that they and others nearby were waiting on the same bus.

Wrong. The bus arrived and as I pulled myself up off the steps, I watched my ride home drive right by. The driver had glanced at the kiosk and continued without stopping. Horrors! I actually ran after the bus for a moment, in the hopes it would stop farther down the road, but the bus kept going. Now what?

I'm not shy, so I looked around and found a small grocery store, where I asked about the bus. Was I reading the schedule correctly? Would there be another bus coming along? Yes, but not until 7:00, which meant just over two hours of waiting in increasingly nippy weather. I bought some cheese and crackers and sparkling Irish mineral water and returned to the steps to ponder. The other stores had all shut down at 4:30 and the 4:45 bus had left me stranded outside. No more comfy indoor shopping for me.

I pulled out the T-shirt I'd purchased in a card shop and slipped it on over my other shirt for warmth, covering both with the raincoat as I wondered what on earth I should do. Even the grocery store would be closing soon and the crowd was slowly trickling away. Soon, I'd be alone in a small town in England in the dark. Great. This is what we call "adventure," I thought.

Pacing around for a time helped me locate a pay phone just down the road from the bus stop. Aha! But, I had just arrived in England and had very little change. Praying I had enough to call the hotel, I stepped into the phone booth and lifted the phone. I called the operator, fortunately a free call, and asked for the phone number for the Marriott in Swindon. Unfortunately, I couldn't locate a working pen. I attempted to memorize the lengthy number, hung up, and immediately realized I'd promptly forgotten several digits. Okay.

One more try. I dialed the operator, again, and the phone was answered by a very pleasant male voice. "I don't have a working pen," I told him, "and the number is a bit long." I was frustrated nearly to tears, by that point.

"Ah, yes," he said. "Well, here's a trick we like to tell people. You just blow on the glass and write the number down in the fog." He repeated the number and I followed his directions. Brilliant!

I phoned the hotel, plunking numerous odd-shaped coins into the slots. Knowing David wouldn't be returning for another hour, I asked to have a message left, telling him that I missed the 4:45 bus in Devizes and would have to wait until the 7:00 bus arrived before I could head home. I hung up the phone, walked away, and panicked. If the person at the hotel desk had gotten my message down correctly, it would definitely be a new experience. But, I was low on change. I counted my coins carefully and stepped back into the booth; barely enough for a second call and the number was still smeared on the booth's glass. Thank you, Lord. The hotel clerk probably thought I was crazy, but I repeated the message and had her read it back to make sure it made sense.

Satisfied, I went back to walk around the square. There was no sense sitting on the steps and shivering; the bus wouldn't be coming for quite a while. Within a half-hour, though, my knight in shining European car showed up with a broad grin on his face. I was stunned to see my husband in the tiny rental, but not surprised to see him laughing at me.

"So, you missed the bus, huh?"

"Um, yeah. I had a great time until I watched that last bus go past. How on earth did you find me?"

He held up the little folders containing the messages I'd left, both neatly written and using the correct wording. Wow, I thought, do I love the British. He told me it was simple enough to find the town square and then pointed out the map of the Devizes town centre, right smack in the middle of an island that bisected the square. There, mere yards from where I'd stepped off the bus, was the exact information I needed in order to locate both the Information Centre and the castle. Darn.

Because he's a little mean, David took a picture of me in front of the map of Devizes. I didn't mind too much, since he'd come to my rescue.

"So," he said as he handed me the camera. "I thought you were going to relax, today."

I got into the warm car and smiled. As we drove back through the English countryside, I thought to myself, Relax? Not me. Not in England. Not ever. Tomorrow: Oxford. And this time, I'll stand up while I wait for the bus.



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Writer to Writer

Rie Sheridan

ISN'T IT ROMANTIC

Isn't It Romantic... NOT!

Screeeech. Thud.

That is the sound of my soapbox being dragged over so that I can step up on it. I have been reviewing romances for Love Romances for some time now, and recently have been reading for several other purposes as well, and I am struck by something that makes me wonder if I am just getting too old to live. Lately, I have been concentrating on historicals, as I toy with the idea of going back to my Celtic romance which I contemplate finishing from time to time. I am thunderstruck by the amount of pre-marital relations going on.

Of course, since when I commented on this to my mother she said, "You know it is historically accurate," maybe it's not an age thing...maybe I am just a prude. But to me, one of the points of a good romance is that the hero and heroine build to the sexual part of their relationship very slowly, and it comes about as a consummation of their love. Preferably after the wedding ceremony.

Is this just me? I am not against writing steamy scenes. I have penned a few in my day...but when I saw books set in as varied settings as Victorian London, Gaelic Ireland, and pre-Civil War America all having playful bedroom romps before the rings went on the fingers, I was dumbfounded.

To me, it is much more challenging as a writer to keep that passion sizzling without consummation. To make the reader wait until finally they can't take any more. And then let them have what they want to see. Especially in a historical. I realize that contemporary stories have a bit more leeway with relationships. Modern society has much more tolerance for the extra/pre-marital affair than I THOUGHT that historical societies did. It makes it hard for me to accept the writer's story when I keep thinking "Did they REALLY do things like that?

I would truly like to hear from you, the readers, as to your thoughts on this subject. Feel free to drop me an email at rie@wvu.org.



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Writer's Read

Wynelda-Ann Shelton

Writer, Writer, What Do You Read?

A question has been plaguing me lately: what do you read when you're gearing up to write? More precisely, what should you read when you're gearing up to write?

I identify myself as a fiction writer. My genre is Fantasy: I love magic.

I've even assigned "fantasy" stereotypes to some of my co-workers. There's an imp, a rogue, and one who pretends to be a troll but really isn't. A dwarf maybe? It'll come to me at the worst possible moment. Probably at 3 A.M.

So what should I read now that I'm getting reading to plunge back into the waters, so to speak? After taking some time off from writing fiction because of my September wedding I can now feel the story bubbling nicely. It's almost ready to be served. I know myself, and my writing, well enough to know that if I let it simmer it will come to a full boil soon. For awhile, at least, the story will seem to write itself. In the meantime, I think. I ponder. I read.

There is a school of thought that you shouldn't read books similar to what you're preparing to write. The possibility of bleed-through, of the book you're reading making itself visible in the fiction that you're writing, scares some writers to death. I know it scares me.

But I don't retreat into "safe" books: other genres, non-fiction, magazine articles. Instead I find myself embracing my genre as well as those "safer" reads. I'm re-reading my personal favorites (Mercedes Lackey, Anne Logston) and experimenting with new tastes as well (Clive Barker, Tanith Lee, Charles de Lint).

But won't they influence my writing? I hope so. I am not a patient reader; if I put a book down before page 25 it is guaranteed that I will not pick it back up again. I love books and magazines that grab me and pull me into their world. In the past two weeks I have read five books by Mercedes Lackey, Onion Girl by Charles de Lint, Mary Englebright's Home Companion magazine (which oddly enough has a couple of things in it on books this month), Victoriana Magazine, Table for Two by Nora Roberts and a few others.

Those are only the titles that I finished. Reading works by those you admire should inspire you. I know it inspires me. My story is almost ready to bubble over.



T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
http://TheWritersEzine.com
Copyright 1998 - 2007, Writopia Inc. All Rights Reserved
Submissions Guidelines The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Submissions Guidelines (Updated)

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

What We Pay For

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What We Publish

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

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

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

What We Won't Publish

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

Simultaneous submissions.

Material that has appeared elsewhere (reprints).

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

Length Recommendations

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

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

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

Rights

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

Formats We Will Accept

Plain text in the body of an email.

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

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

Editing

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

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

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

Getting to Know You

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

How and Where to Submit

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

Fiction should be sent to fiction@thewritersezine.com.

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

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

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

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

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

Good luck!


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

 

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