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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       
21 May 2012
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Craft of Writing

Diana K. Serquina

Conducting Successful Long-Distance Interviews
 

In today’s world, much of our personal and professional communication takes place by telephone or e-mail. For many freelance writers, this means doing interviews for articles by telephone or e-mail instead of in person.

(One quick note before we move on to the topic of how to conduct “remote” interviews: It’s not always best to do interviews by phone or e-mail. If your interview subject is local and you will learn things from the unspoken parts of an interview — body language, facial expressions, the subject’s home or work environment — then it’s worth doing the interview in person even if the telephone or e-mail seems more convenient.)
If you live in Nebraska and your interviewee is on one of the coasts, or if you’re simply looking for facts and don’t need emotional insights into your subject, you can often make things easier for yourself and your interviewee if you conduct the interview by telephone or e-mail.

One of the most obvious advantages of e-mail is that even if your schedule is incompatible with your interviewee’s, you can still get the interview done. Often, an e-mail interview may get finished more quickly than if you’d had to wait for a mutually agreeable time to talk. However, that’s only the case if your subject responds to your e-mail in a timely fashion — and some will not. Be prepared to follow up with a reminder e-mail, or by telephone, if you don’t get a response as your deadline approaches.

How To Prepare
For telephone interviews, you need to be as prepared as you would be if you were conducting the interview in person. Have your list of questions ready, and be familiar with any background information relevant to the interview. While you don’t have to dress up for a telephone interview, you should be sure that even if you’re wearing sweatpants and an old T-shirt, you sound as professional as if you were in a business suit.

If your interviewee agrees, recording your telephone interview is a good idea. Don’t rely on it, in case you experience a technical problem (or operator error) that leaves you with an incomplete or unusable recording, but a tape can be a good backup to your notes — especially if you don’t write as quickly as your source speaks (which will be the case for most of us).

For an e-mail interview, the preparation is a bit different. You should still be familiar with any relevant background, so that your questions don’t show that you neglected your research. However, you can take your time phrasing the questions the best way and, likewise, when you get the answers back, you can take some time to frame any follow-up questions. This is one of the best aspects of e-mail interviews. In e-mail, there are no awkward pauses, no casual filler words like “um” or “you know” that creep into spoken conversation. E-mail interviews are also especially helpful to a new interviewer who may be nervous about the interview and thus may have more trouble sounding confident and professional.

Keep It Professional
There are many things that can undermine your credibility with a source when you conduct any interview, but there are some pitfalls specific to e-mail and telephone interviews.

For e-mail interviews, edit your e-mail as carefully as you will edit the finished article. Nothing makes a poorer impression on people than receiving a list of questions and comments with spelling or grammatical errors. After all, you’re a writer — they should be able to expect all of your written communication to be technically correct. Use your spell-check function, but also pay close attention to things it won’t catch, like the spelling of your contact’s name and any company names.

If you’re doing a telephone interview from your home, be sure you minimize background noise. If you have children, try to make telephone calls during their naps or while they are at school, playing outside (with someone else’s supervision if they are small), or otherwise out of earshot. (This is also a good idea when making any professional calls. Even if your editor knows you work from home and are a parent, he or she is unlikely to be favorably impressed by screaming children or “Sesame Street” blaring in the background of your conversation about your latest project.)

How To Follow Up
If you’re doing an interview by phone, make sure you thank your subject for his or her time at the end of the interview, just as you would in person. It’s a good idea to ask when would be a good time for you to call back if you have follow-up questions as you work on the article. That way if you do think of something that you forgot to ask, you have paved the way for a second call and it will be less awkward.

If the interview is by e-mail, you should still thank the subject for his or her time. While you won’t need to ask about a good time to call back, it’s wise to include a sentence indicating that if you have any additional questions, you’ll send a follow-up e-mail.

Regardless of the interview medium, you should let your subject know when you expect the article to run, and offer to provide a copy of it. Sometimes you can have your editor send a copy directly to the subject, and sometimes you’ll need to take care of this yourself. While it’s not strictly required, it does tend to keep your subjects happy, which makes them more willing to be interviewed again in the future.

If you make an effort to remain professional, you will probably find that telephone and e-mail interviews will save you time and money, and allow you to complete more articles in less time. Once you’re comfortable interviewing in this fashion, it will also open new article topics to you, because you won’t need to stick to subjects for which you have experts available locally.


About The Author
Diana K. Serquina is a freelance writer living in Spokane, Washington. She has written for a variety of magazines and newspapers, and is currently a columnist for the Great Falls (Montana) Tribune. She conducts most of her interviews by e-mail.


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Craft of Writing

Sheila Bender

Real Response
A method to teach peers and writing group members to help them help you revise

When I entered my first university-level poetry-writing workshop in 1979, I was too naive to be terrified. I was a late twenties, non-matriculating student who had been directing a day care center, training personnel and working with four-year-old children and their parents.

I'd learned to be child-centered and to honor the way children are most like adults in their feelings and least like them in their thinking. While children “don't listen” and make seemingly “inappropriate choices” — mixing sand in the Play-Dough, for instance — they feel hurt and surprised when scolded. I learned to facilitate the behavior I was looking for in children by understanding that their thought processes were different than mine but their feelings were the same. Rather than saying, “You are not listening,” I would explain, “I need you to listen to me now.” I might say, “Mixing sand with Play-Dough might be fun right now, but that sand will mean we can't use it again tomorrow.” I learned to explain my needs and my thinking, and expressing both helped children relate to me and grow.

In the poetry writing workshop, I was about to learn that this way of relating helps people of all ages grow, and that when writing workshops don't honor it, members feel as if they will never write well. When I brought my raw and compressed, often completely laconic first drafts to the university workshop, I heard my classmates say:

“The poet doesn't earn the ending of this poem.”
“I think the author should cut the second stanza and move the last one to the beginning.”
“I like this poem but....”
I felt as torn apart and unloved as the poem. Others in the workshop dropped out, feeling that the members, under the guidance of the professor, were colluding to keep newcomers out of their club. But I was desperate to learn to write the poems that I believed were inside, so I began translating the criticism into sentences that would help me learn:
  • “The poet doesn't earn the ending of this poem” became “When I get to the end of the poem I feel disappointed and confused — I don't know how I got there.”
  • “I think the author should cut the second stanza and move the last one to the beginning” became “As I read, I feel that I am not clued in until the last stanza and I wish for that information earlier.”
  • “I like this poem, but...” became “Here are the feelings that come up for me and distract me as I read.”
These statements made me want to delve into my poems and grow them.

After a couple of semesters, I applied to the university's graduate program in creative writing. A few years later, I had the chance to teach teachers a method for helping their students grow writing through the revision process. As I was presenting, the teachers asked me if I could explain my process in steps. I came up with three steps:
  • Repeating Words & Phrases that Stick
  • Explaining Feelings
  • Noting What You Still Feel Curious to Know More About
The teachers shortened this to Velcro Words, Feelings, and Curiosity, and I have been using this method in workshops ever since. The job of workshop participants is to respond, not tear apart. The root of the word “criticism” means “to tear apart” but the root of the word “author” is the same as in “authority.” The writer is the one with the authority in revision. It is hard to use that authority to paste something back together after criticizers tear it apart; response should help develop a piece of writing. Using what I call the “three-step response method” in workshops, I have seen people succeed in growing their writing, and leave feeling inspired to continue writing and revising.

In addition, I have learned to help writers overcome the negative self-talk that hinders them as they draft:
“You can't write.”
“This is dumb.”
“No one will care about what you have to say.”
“Nothing you write can approach the beauty of the idea you have in your head.”
“You're not as good as anyone whose writing you admire.”
I have helped them replace this chatter with an affirmation: “I will get down what I can and, later, through the process of hearing trusted listeners say back Velcro words, tell me the feelings they have as a consequence of reading my work, and offer me the questions they still have after reading what I wrote, I will carry the drafting process further.” And I’ve reinforced the belief that in a workshop, there is no bad writing, only the opportunity for good writing.

Real Response: A Three-Step Method
Giving response in three separate stages ensures that workshop readers will linger long enough to find a way to articulate their response clearly and will not start telling the writer how to fix their draft. When workshop members have agreed to give response in the three steps and then drift into a different style of response or skip ahead to a step when the group hasn't finished with a previous one, a gentle reminder to stick to the steps usually keeps them on track.

Step One: Velcro Words
After a workshop member reads a draft, listeners repeat the words and phrases that have stuck. They don't tell why the words stuck or even say, "I liked.…" They merely repeat the words back as closely as they can remember them. It feels wonderful to the writer to hear words back. All of us write to be heard and there is no better way to affirm that you've been heard than to hear your own words from someone else's mouth. Not telling why the words stuck keeps the focus on the writing and the writer.

Step Two: Feelings
To warm up for this step, I have workshop members list as many emotions as they can. The more emotions they list, the more versatile and articulate they become in responding to writing: gentle, harsh, lost, discovered, nostalgic, sentimental, fearful, reconciled, panicked, bored, surprised, thankful, in mourning, grief-stricken, at odds, defeated, successful, glib, surrendered, and resistant are but a portion of what we generate. We discuss how feelings elicited by the subject and tone of a piece of writing often include opposites; for example, sadness and joy, displeasure at loss and surprise at opening up to new gain, and innocence and learning.

When readers report the feelings they experience from the writing presented in workshop, I divide this step into two sub-steps. First, I have them report feelings that seem to be in keeping with the subject and subtext of the draft. If someone writes about being stuck with twin two-year-olds in a long line of cars at a U.S.- Canadian customs check by making the metaphor that he felt like Mt. St. Helens right before she erupted, workshop members would report registering feelings of bottled up anger or unbearable frustration.

Next, I have them report whatever discomfort occurs inside them from phrasing and details that veer from the writing's subject and subtext. For instance, if the writer with the two-year-olds in his car included a detail like, "My stomach felt like a pond under a clear blue sky," when he was writing about being in the customs line and feeling like Mt. St. Helens, readers might report that the clear blue sky evoked calmness that surprised them in the context of what they registered as frustration. The writer gets to decide if the metaphor is accurate or not. Maybe in the drafting process what the unconscious was delivering to the writer was that although consciously he thought he should feel frustrated, unconsciously he enjoyed being with the kids and away from adult responsibilities. The writing might take on a new direction, depending on what the writer decides about the readers' emotional confusion. The body of reader responses concerning feelings helps a writer figure out how his or her writing is making contact with its readers. Even if readers have contradictory responses, they help the writer, who often clears up contradictions with very small changes in wording or examples.

Peer responses help the writer identify wheelspinning and meandering from their real subjects. If readers are confused, if they feel ripped off, if they feel batted around in different directions, the words are causing that confusion, that theft, that assault. If such emotional journeys are not in the service of the real subject, the author figures out how to change the words. It's a "self-correcting" exercise like learning to cut with scissors — no one teaches children to cut on the lines — they keep at it until their eye-hand coordination develops to the point where they can do it. Something like this is true for writing; no one really wants to confuse readers because then they confuse themselves. Receiving feeling-level response helps writers cut along the true lines of their writing's emotions.

Step Three: Curiosity
Finally, readers tell the writer what they want to know more about and where in the writing they wanted to know it. Specific curiosities indicate to the writer where more writing is required. When writers listen to where others want to know more, they get additional help in recognizing their writing's real subject and where and how they may have skirted it. They often also realize that what they skipped because they thought it might bore a reader is exactly what the reader wants to know or that they inadvertently skipped something because they know their subject so well.

The three-step response method has helped me ensure workshop members honor that we are alike in our feelings (we want to succeed, we are shy, we are easily wounded, etc.) though we may differ in our thinking. The response method opens up possibilities for the writer, leaving him or her not only empowered to continue developing a piece of writing but eager to do so. Since most drafts are not fully developed in the thinking and choices they contain, helping writers approach these drafts as I approached the children in the day care center encourages writing that is authentic, lively, and very much worth getting right.
 

About The Author
Sheila Bender is a poet, essayist, and publisher of WritingItReal.com, an online writing magazine. A past columnist for Writer's Digest Magazine, her books include Writing Personal Essays: How to Shape Your Life Experiences for the Page, Keeping a Journal You Love, A Year in the Life: Journaling for Self-Discovery, Writing Personal Poetry: Creating Poems from Life Experience, and Writing in a New Convertible with the Top Down. She teaches at writers conferences and online. For information, visit http://www.sheilabender.com and http://www.writingitreal.com


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Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz


Here's our Drabble of the Month for October:

The Terminated Drag
by Bill Cox

The three squadies eased onto the ground beside the road. Rain had left large puddles along the sides, but the spot they chose was clear of water.

Easing the pack from his back, the lance-jack said, "I could kill for a smoke, got any?"

The radioman shook his head, but the medic pulled out a crumpled cigarette packet and said, "One left."

A truck roared past and as it went by a wave of water sloshed over the trio..

"Hell," said the lance-jack; "Yeah", said the radioman; "Right," said the medic, as they looked at the ruined cigarette.
But even so, I think cooperation may always be something of a mystery to me. Nobody runs it. I realize that's the point, but still...

I feel that stories are absolutely necessary; we can't seem to think without them. We make stories of our lives; we put our personal events into the form of scenes, and try to make some sense from these scenes. That way, we can ask of the characters who are ourselves: did I do the right thing? Did I feel like a victim of someone else's will, or of fate? Did I learn?

The problem with making stories of our lives, as I see it right now, is that a story isn't really a story without an ending, without closure. And, far from our lives themselves being over and done, we don't even know at a given time what chapter of our own story we're in!

I mean, say we decide to quit college a year early to take a job offer that we can't refuse—full-time, full benefits, lots of stock options, and the same salary as a graduate would get. Now, is this life event going to go into the "start of my brilliant, prodigious career" chapter, or into the "college dropout and sellout in one fell swoop" chapter?

The thing is, we may NEVER know! The job may not work out at all, making us feel like a dropout and a flopout. But then, a month later, while visiting a friend who's on leave in the military overseas, we're offered an opportunity to work and live in Italy, our life's fantasy, which may never have happened had we not dropped out of school and parted ways with that first job. This Italy event sort of thing may happen to us only a month after the first job sort of thing, or it may not happen until near the end of our working life. And, if the Italy thing ever does happen, it could, either sooner or later, turn out to be an even worse fiasco than the first job was!

So how the heck do we know where we are in life, when we're there? We make up stories, we put a spin on things. We wish our children sweet dreams; should we wish ourselves and each other happy stories? Is there a real story? What are we telling ourselves behind the scenes, before we put the spin on?


Our Drabble challenge for November: True Stories

Here are the Drabble guidelines in a nutshell: 100 words excluding the title, and due by the 10th of the month before publication of the issue for which you're submitting (so the November Drabble would be due by October 10).

See you next time.


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Fiction Short Story

by benning

The Dark Road

Leaves skitter along the road in the chill autumn breeze. The road is a dark and quiet place.

The boy is eight years old. Dressed in a brand-new Batman costume, the cape a swirling dull sheen in the twilight, he skips along the dark road. He carries an empty sack in his hand. Halloween is just beginning. The mask he wears limits his vision, and he watches the roadway a few feet ahead to avoid holes and roadkill. He doesn't want to ruin his new costume.

He can hear his breath echoing in his ears and thinks of Darth Vader.

"Luke, I am your father," he intones in his best grown-up voice. He giggles and tries it again.

Light streams around him from behind, his shadow suddenly appearing ahead of his skipping form.

"I'm the Batman," he whispers.

Too late, he realizes something is different. The road ahead is filled with light and the elongated shadow of Batman.

He stops. A horn blares close behind. He turns, his eyes widening in shock, then fear.

He has no time to even scream before the huge truck strikes him.

The red taillights fade into the distance; leaves skitter along the road in the chill autumn breeze. The road is a dark and quiet place.

*****

Howard and June pulled off the road and stared into the dark night. They sat in the car, silent, as they had done each Halloween for the past ten years.

Howard glanced at his wife, saw the tears glistening on her cheeks in the dashboard light. He took her hand and gently squeezed it. She squeezed his in return, her eyes never straying from the dark road ahead.

"We should've been with him," she murmured.

Howard said nothing. They'd been over this before. Many times. Everything that could've been said had been.

"He shouldn't have been out here alone," she whispered.

Howard turned away, stared out the windshield. "He couldn't wait, June. We told him to wait for us. You know that." His voice was quiet, gentling.

"We should've been with him," she whispered again.

Howard watched the dark, windy road and sighed.

At last, June sniffled, patted his hand, and scrabbled through her purse for her hanky. It was her signal that it was time to go. Over until the next Halloween.

Howard started the car, glanced in the mirrors, and pulled out. The headlights illuminated the road, and the swirling leaves ahead. He drove slowly and carefully.

*****

The red taillights fade into the distance; leaves skitter along the road in the chill autumn breeze. The road is a dark and quiet place.

The boy is eight years old. Dressed in a brand-new Batman costume, the cape a swirling dull sheen in the twilight, he skips along the dark road. He carries an empty sack in his hand. Halloween is just beginning. The mask he wears limits his vision, and he watches the roadway a few feet ahead to avoid holes and roadkill. He doesn't want to ruin his new costume.

© Copyright 2003 benning
 
About the Author
A member of WVU since 2001, benning enjoys writing short stories, but prefers to concentrate on novels. He is currently editing a historical novel, researching a prequel to it, while toying with a science fiction novel. He believes that M&Ms are the perfect food. He currently resides in Largo, Florida and will soon have his Sweet Patootie by his side.


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Fiction Short Story

by Wynelda-Ann Deaver

Dragon Breath

Merry ducked behind her shield just as the dragon hiccupped. Warm smoke carrying the stench of sulphur billowed around her. This was a bad idea. A very bad idea.
 
It had seemed like a good idea when Elian, her Elvin mentor and resident drunk of the Middle Magica School, had told her that she was ready. According to her knocking knees, his timing was off.
 
“Use the sword, Missy!” Elian’s voice ended in a hiccup. Was susceptibility to ale contagious? Had he gotten the dragon drunk? Perhaps, if she could get the dragon to eat him, it would fall down drunk.
 
“The name is Merry, you idiot,” she muttered under her breath. He was, doubtlessly, hiding somewhere nearby. But not too near to the dragon. That her mentor would stand beside her was a bit too much to ask for.
 
Merry knelt in the grass, keeping one eye on the dragon. By all appearances, it was a female. The scales glistened in the sunlight, whereas a male’s would have been dull. But the dead give away was its size. It was easily the size of a cottage. Thankfully, she was to all appearances, settled in for a nice nap. She lay curled up, tail against cheek like a smug kitten, in the bowl of the valley. Merry was directly in front of it, at eye level, a bit up the rise.
 
“This is exceedingly stupid.” Feeling somewhat safe, Merry rooted around in her karasack for the pieces of the sword that had been given to her. The ceremony had been full of pomp and circumstance, but in the end they had presented her with a broken sword. “I ask you, a broken sword to fight a dragon? And why? This dragon isn’t harming anyone. It’s just taking a nap.”
 
She looked up at a sound that resembled a gruff snort. Puffs of smoke were coming out of the dragon’s snout. Mayhaps it had indigestion? Her hand found the hilt of the sword and pulled it out. It glowed blue in the brilliance of the sun, but still in all was a broken sword.
 
“Go after her, Missy! Strike her when she’s down!” Elian’s voice carried across the field.
 
“Well, that’s not fair.” Merry stood, one hand on her shield and one on her sword. There were only about three ways that this could end. One, she could strike the poor dragon while it lay sleeping, and win. Two, the dragon could wake up and eat her. And possibly Elian. If the poor dragon had heartburn now, it could only worsen after that meal.
 
“Or I could run away.” The words came out of her mouth slowly. As if someone else had spoken them. “I wasn’t supposed to be trained as a dragon slayer in any case. How many ladies are dragon slayers? None. Ladies get herb-lore and healing. Maybe mage craft, if the talent is strong enough. I haven’t heard of one lately, but it’s been done. Never, ever, has a lady been taught dragon slaying.”
 
Merry hadn’t even known that they killed dragons; had never heard of such a thing. They never did it at her father’s castle. “This is wrong, Elian. I won’t do it.” Her voice carried through out the valley, echoing back at her.
 
The dragon grunted. Her heart bumped in her chest, traveling quickly to her throat. Elian’s laughter pealed through out the valley as he materialized before her. Materialized? That was something only a...
 
“Welcome, daughter, into the lore of mage craft.” The dragon’s voice rumbled, sending pebbles and small rocks tumbling from the walls of the valley.
 
“Missy, did you really think I’d send you to certain death? To fight a dragon with a broken sword?” Elian stood straight and his voice had lost its wobble.
 
“Well, yes.” She looked to the dragon, afraid of offending it. “You are a bit of a drunk, Elian.”
 
Both dragon and elf laughed. “Elves don’t process alcohol quite like humans. And mages can never afford to be in their cups.”
 
Merry felt her face burn. “But the ceremony… the sword. Why go through all that?”
 
The dragon cleared its throat. “The sword will glow in different colors in certain circumstances. When a mage has the sword in the presence of her chosen dragon, then it glows…”
 
“Blue.” Merry interrupted.
 
“Aren’t you the quick study? I will enjoy teaching you to harness the magic of my kind.” The dragon looked into Merry’s eyes. “Much as Elian has readied you for the choosing, now I shall ready you for your craft.”
 
Merry smiled. Mage craft was highly respectable. “How long before I return to my father’s lands?” She tried to sound respectful as she asked the question, but the answer was too dear.
 
“Never, if you so choose.” Elian’s voice was surprisingly gentle. It also had a pleasing lilt to it when he wasn’t pretending to be drunk. “A mage is beholden to no person, unless they so choose. You are linked to your dragon.”
 
“I don’t know her name, though.” Merry whispered to Elian.
 
“My name, daughter, is Nemar,” the dragon answered.
 
Merry turned to the dragon and began walking towards it. “Nemar is a lovely name.” She reached her hand out tentatively, and Nemar bumped it with her snout.
 
“I certainly hope you’re ready for an adventure, Missy. Because this is one that won’t soon end.”
 
Feeling the warmth of the dragon’s breath circling around her, Merry smiled. “An adventure sounds just right.”

© Copyright 2003 Wynelda-Ann Deaver


About the Author
Wynelda-Ann Deaver has been writing stories since she learned how to read. A confirmed read-a-holic, she keeps a day job as a secretary to feed her book habit. When not working, or writing, she hangs out in Middle Earth.

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Fiction Short Story

by Jack Forge

Lunar Vigil

In mother's house, Jodi and I watched and waited. Our knees sank like stones into the sofa bed beneath the front room window. Our hands crawled along the windowsill, our noses pressed against the cold autumn glass. The October moon lighted Jodi's curls silvery in the night, but I couldn't see her eyes peering into the darkness around the street corner glow-lamp. I squatted behind her, my little hands trembling on her shoulders. I saw her head silhouetted against the moon and her pallid face reflected in the windowpane. We watched small shadow leaves outside float and plane like phosphorescent birds while we waited for Mother to come home from across the sea.

"Whoooo," said an owl in the avocado tree.

The jade leaves caressed our cottage cream walls and fondled moonbeams against the dewy glass. I wanted to pee but dared not leave Jodi and the window and the sheltering tree. Mother was gone to wander, while Jodi and I only watched, huddling in our curdled cottage built in a wood, beside the big house—the gabled house of many stories among the brambly hawthorns.

"That escaped prisoner from the Sanatorium," a television voice said, "is heading home, we believe, to an old house on Allen Street."

Jodi and I froze in the cold light of the cathode rays.

"...over six feet tall, three hundred pounds...thick, red hair and wild, dark eyes. We'll have more news at the last minute on KRZY. Now, stay tuned for Souls of the Damned—brought to you by Caliban Cleanser—pure as the driven snow."

Still Jodi and I huddled on the soft sofa and waited for Mother, but now the Red Hairy Man would come, too, home to the old story house beneath the round yellow moon. Jodi laved her lips with the pink tip of her tongue that flicked as quickly as the lids on my round eyes.

Creeeeek—

Jodi's face quartered, then halved, then fully brightened toward me as it shone in the amber light from a bare bulb glowing in the kitchen, where our back door was an uncertain barricade between us and the old story house. Our eyes flew to the brassy knob in the bulb light. Turning? We wondered in unison. The latch—locked?

Jodi and I looked together to see it locked. "Jodi," I said. "Is it—" She grabbed my leg and squeezed till I whimpered. We saw the knob floating in the cream color of the back door not yet turning.

“Be still!”

Its metal orb was dented and paint speckled with a spot of cream paint on the side of its golden sphere, a spot just below center and to the left—twenty minutes to the hour.

Creeeeek.

Jodi and I ran on a cloud in the tepid darkness, too black to find our way to the open closet, fathomless beneath the dim soft cloth shapes hanging in the dark. Too far across the dismal rug land of roses on the floor. Too far. But the kitchen door still cream, and the knob still at twenty till the hour.

We listened to hear no footsteps outside where Mother had walked away to the lighthouse across the asphalt sea ages ago. "I go to sweep the cobwebs out of the sky," she had said. "And I'll be with you by and by." But her footsteps were not yet sounding tap, tap on the pink flagstones interred beneath the giant avocado tree. No sound of Mother, but only lights from a car projecting a ghost dance across the walls. They waved and whirled around us, crept across the floor and ravished the rug roses. Jodi and I revolved in a spinning pool—walls turning around our heads, our eyes rolling around the kitchen doorknob as if a top spinning in a field of cream.

Jodi's face glowed eerily between the shadows. I gripped her hands and wished we were not alone, wished we had not searched for mysteries in the back of the closet. Together we prayed in fear of breathing.

Knock, knock.

We listened not to hear the soft solid tapping against our cottage wall.

"Whoooo—," said the owl.

A breeze shook the avocado tree into a giant witch dangling emerald pendants from the tips of her bony fingers. And the shadows of the silver leaves flashed across the foggy windowpane. I looked into Jodi's eyes and saw twin seas washing toward me. "Do you think—?" I asked and could've drowned in them to see the memories of our nakedness in her mind.

Forgive us our...

Tap, tap.

We listened not to hear a soft stepping not stopping on the flagstone blocks outside our cottage door. Red Hairyman? We looked and screamed in silence: "Noooo!" Looking into the kitchen, we thought we saw on the door, the knob turned towards the hour. Opening?

"Whoooo?" cried Jodi and I with the owl too soon too late.

Pray for us!

Coming at us from the unknown: a face in the window like a movie then gone. The front door opened. A shape against the gloaming entered the room. Outside, the avocado tree shuddered and shimmered in the lunar light, and the shape in the doorway became Mother in the radiance of the moon. She at last. Not yet gone forever from the cottage and the home where the owl at the door for sentinel stood.

© Copyright 2003 Jack Forge


About the Author

Surviving early life in Los Angeles, Jack Forge has been reading, writing, and making pictures since he was thirteen. After completing graduate study at the University of Iowa, he taught English for many years. So far, he has seen several of his poems, two of his short stories, a painting, and two of his novels e-published. This story germinated from memories of childhood with his single mother. Regardless of the storm and stress of the world, he lives for art, nature, and love. More about Jack can be found at his website: http://www.Dreamuse.com

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Fiction Short Story

by Joanna E. Lopez

World's End

The battered truck sputtered clouds of black smoke from its tailpipe as it chugged down the road. The paint was peeling, the body dented, and parts of the frame exposed. It was the depression so Henry and Elizabeth Price couldn't afford non-essential luxury repairs. They barely had enough to keep their farm in Grover's Mill.

"Great night." Elizabeth Price smiled; the wrinkles around her thin-lipped wide mouth were prominent.

"Uh, huh," Henry Price declared, sitting next to her in the car. His eyes were fixed on the long, straight road ahead.

"I can't wait to get home and open my prize and see what else is inside," Lizzy giggled. She looked through the orange cellophane wrapped around a black basket filled with several different kinds of imported fruits buried underneath imported cheese and cracker delicacies. The cellophane crinkled against her chest as she hugged her prize. She won grand prize at Bingo, the only thing Lizzy Price had ever won in her life.

"Uh, huh."

"Did you have a good time?" she asked, turning to her husband.

"Won twenty dollars. We can use it to fix the roof."

"And these seats," Lizzy answered. She wiggled her body against the ripped black leather upholstery seats and looked out the side window. She reached behind her head to tuck some loose stray gray hairs back into her bun and smiled. She'd had a great time tonight. It was the first time in a long while she and Henry had gone out together.

Lizzy leaned forward and snapped the knob on the radio. Loud applause and laughter filled the truck. Lizzy sat back to listen.

"Edger Bergen and Charlie will be back in a minute, but in the meantime let's hear Chuck Hayden and his orchestra."

Lizzy frowned at the radio. She leaned forward and the truck filled with murmured possessed voices as she ran the small bar down the dial.

"We are coming to you in the middle of beautiful downtown Manhattan to bring you the sultry sounds of Spain," the radio said.

"Is this ok?" she asked, turning her head to her husband.

"It's fine," he nodded. Lizzy sat back again and let the sultry, sensual sounds of the Latin music sweep over her. She looked out the car window at the full moon illuminating the inky blackness. It threw shadows on the large dark trees, making them an eerie blue/purple color. The gnarled branches reached out at them as if wanting to grab them off the road. There was a strange feeling of expectancy in the air tonight as if something big was going to happen.

Lizzy felt a cold chill go up her spine. It felt creepy driving out on the quiet road alone, especially on Halloween night.

"Ladies and gentleman, we interrupt our program of non-stop Latin music to bring you a bulletin. From the intercontinental news—a professor Wilcox at the observatory in Princeton, New Jersey has reported spurts of red streaks in space. Professor Wilcox confirms that the red spurts streaks are coming from the planet Mars. We now return you to the Meridian room at the Plaza hotel situated in downtown Manhattan."

Lizzy and Henry Price stared at the radio as "Stardust" began to play.

"What do you think it means, Henry?"

"Probably nothing," he answered, his voice low. His eyes returned to the road but Lizzy could tell by how his gripped the steering wheel that he was worried.

"Ladies and gentlemen following the news a minute ago, we have just learned that something just crash-landed on a farm at Grover's Mill. We are going to take you there as soon as we arrive. Now back to the music."

"Grover's Mill? That's just two miles from here."

"I know," Henry answered.

"But, why didn't we hear anything?"

"I don't know," Henry replied, his voice shaky.

Lizzy looked up and searched the sky. It was clear with stars that shined like diamonds in the dark sky. No unusual red streaks to be seen. Lizzy frowned and sat back. They had to pass by Grover's Mill to get home. She pulled her prize tighter against her chest and began to chew on the skin around her thumb. She closed her eyes and wished for Henry to drive faster. She wanted to go home.

Lizzy turned her head to see the V-shaped line that formed between his eyebrows. It was a telltale sign that he also felt as frightened as she did.

"We are here in a farm at Grover's Mill and have just had word that the object that crashed seems not to be a meteor. It looks more like a yellowish white cylinder, with a diameter of 30 yards. Mr. Wilson, the owner of the farm, is set to speak about this unusual event."

"Which farm do you thi..."

"Shh!" Henry reached out and turned the volume higher when he heard the reporter's voice again.

"We are here with Mr. Wilson who owns the farm where the cylinder landed. Can you please tell the listening audience what you remember of this rather unusual visitor that landed on your backyard?"

Lizzy held her breath.

"I was listening to the radio, and kind of drowsy and listening to the radio talking about Mars and then I heard something. A hissing sound like a Fourth of July rocket. I then turned my head to the window and saw a red streak. The earth shook so hard it smacked me to the ground when it landed."

"Thank you, Mr. Wilson. Now let me direct you to a sound that seems to becoming from the object. A strange humming, scraping noise. I am going to put my microphone up to the object so you, the audience, can hear it." A spray of pebbles and dirt spewed from underneath the truck's tires when Henry turned the steering wheel sharply to the shoulder of the road. A rustling noise came from the radio, followed by a soft humming sound.

"Ladies and gentleman! Something is happening! The top of the cylinder is opening! Two luminous disks are rising from the cylinder like a cobra. It looks like a face of some sort. I can now see its body. It's large like a bear. Ladies and gentleman, its eyes are horrible. They're black and gleam like a serpent's. Saliva is dripping from its rimless lips."

Henry and Lizzy's mouths were wide open as they listened.

"Oh my God! Ladies and gentlemen! The eyes just shot out a sort of radiation beam that incinerated most of the police force. Ladies and gentlemen, this is terrible, horrible. I'm going to try my best to tell you all what is happening around me."

Laser beam sounds and loud blood-curdling screams emanated from the radio. Lizzy and Henry looked at each other as the sounds continued. They were speechless, frozen in place.

"Oh my God! Henry look," Lizzy shouted. Henry slowly turned his head away from the radio to his wife. She was looking out the truck's front window, her mouth wide open. Henry's jaw dropped when he looked and saw bright red streaks illuminating the dark night air, making night turn into day for a fraction of a moment until it disappeared and lit the sky with another. After the next red streak dissipated, Henry heard Lizzy loudly gasp next to him. His eyes fixed on two strange beings walking up the road toward their truck. They were green slimy creatures with bug eyes and long tentacles that reached out to them from the darkness.

"Henry! We have to get out of here!" shouted Lizzy. She opened the door and quickly got out of the car only to find Henry right beside her. He grabbed Lizzy's prize and then her hand. Both ran in a panic down the dark, deserted road in the opposite direction from Grover's Mill, abandoning their truck. Lilly Parker and her little brother, Willie Jr., stopped and pulled off their masks from their faces. They stared at the strange old couple as they ran screaming down the road.

"Wasn't that Mr. and Mrs. Price?" Lilly Parker asked.

Her brother, Willie, nodded his head, the plastic mask made a scraping sound against his chest.

"Where do you suppose they were going?"

Her little brother shrugged his shoulders. "Home," he squealed, and lifted his fat little hand for his big sister to take.

"Ok, lets go home," Lilly answered. "We can see the end of daddy's fireworks show."

She grabbed Willie's hand in one hand and his huge burlap sack of candy in the other. Both turned and went back up the road. It was only after they had turned the corner when a deep booming voice returned to speak on the radio.

"This is Orson Wells, ladies and gentlemen, coming out of character to show you The War of the Worlds was only but a radio drama. It was only The Mercury Theater's version of dressing up in a sheet and jumping up from the bushes and shouting boo. We weren't able to soak your windows with soap, so we did the next best thing and annihilated the world before your very ears. We hope you know we didn't mean it and that it is a quiet beautiful night tonight with no aliens. Happy Halloween."

© Copyright 2003 Joanna E. Lopez
 

About the Author
Joanna E. Lopez has been writing since she was the age of twelve years old, filling many volumes of notebooks with her short story stories. She had only decided to be a writer eight years ago, after she finally showed her friends and family her short stories and was told she actually had talent, she enrolled in Writer's Digest writing school to finish her short story and has just completed another writer's course for writing articles to help polish her craft. She recently completed one of many writers' courses they offer. She received her Bachelor's degree last year in English and this year has won an honorable mention for a writing contest for the Writer's Digest magazine. Her piece appeared in the September issue of Writer's Digest.

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Poetics

Arlene Lawson

Why Read Poetry?


Together with Bob W., I developed a course for Writers' Village University entitled, "The Pleasures of Reading Poetry."

We are continually amazed how many people call themselves poets without having read any of the classic poets.

We expect the students to read from a suggested list of poets and participate in discussions. After six weeks an outstanding thing happens. Not only are the students wiser to the techniques of how to read poetry, but almost every student has applied the techniques they've learned to their own poetry and become a better poet because of it.

It's astonishing to find out how many people are trying to enter the poetic circle, by writing poetry. Even more astonishing is the fact these same people aren't devoting themselves to reading good poetry to find out what works and what doesn't.

I believe these same poets would increase their understanding of poetry if they looked for the poetic devices used by established poets. Even those not aspiring to write poetry, but want to read it, should arm themselves with what to look for in a poem. Sound, structure, style and how the poet paints with words. Both groups need to know what works and why it works.

A quote from poet and author, Jeff Mock: "As poets, we read poetry to be entertained, experience the pleasures of its music, catch our breath at its drama and meditate on its reflections. We also read poetry to learn the craft."

You can become a better poet and a better reader of poetry, by reading the works of other poets, by learning to feel the rhythm and language of poetry.

When you read poetry by well-established writers, notice word choices, line breaks, rhythm. Ask yourself what you liked about it. What you didn't like about it. "Listen" to the words. "Feel them."

"Communicate" with the mind of the author. Some research into the poet's history will give you a much better understanding of how and why he writes like he does.

Today's free verse poetry is a long way from Shakespeare's work. Shakespeare was born in 1564 and began his studies his studies in 1571. How different his life was, when his father apprenticed him to a butcher, than the present day U.S. Poet Laureate, Billy Collins, a professor of English at Lehman College, City University of New York. How much more deeply you can understand a poets choice of words when you're armed with such basic information as where and when he was born.

Words have both dictionary meanings (denotation) and suggestive implications (connotation). Small differences in meaning can make big differences in the impact of a poem. For example, "I found shelter in the cottage" and "I found refuge in the cottage" are quite alike in one respect—both place the subject in a cottage and out of danger—but for the poet, "shelter" and "refuge" differ enough to make the choice an important one. "Shelter" prompts images of weather, storms, a general sense of physical malevolence. "Refuge" is suggestive of broader sanctuary, political, social or emotional. Either word might be the best, depending on the context of the poem; but they are not interchangeable.

Define what you think the appeal (or lack of appeal) of the poem is; is the poem didactic (preachy), attempting to teach you something? Or does it share an experience, or show you a way of thinking that has a natural, and not a class-room, feel about it? Does it succeed on the force of its aural beauty alone? Does it twist syntax, diction, violate all rules of grammar and still leave a tingling on the brain?

"Take a poem on its own terms. Adjust to the poem; don't make the poem adjust to you. Be prepared to hear things you do not want to hear. Assume there is a reason for everything.

Poets show some degree of verbal control it is usually safest to assume that the poet chose each word carefully."
(The Norton Introduction to Poetry, Seventh Edition)
Norton is reminding us that the very style of poetry, as apposed to writing fiction, requires that the poet make every word count.

Here are some points to consider when reading a poem.

Does the title affect your reading and your response to a poem?
What's the poem about?
What makes the poem interesting to read?
Who is the speaker in the poem? What's his role in the poem and who is he speaking to?
How were you affected by the poem? Did the poet mean to affect you in that way?
What distinguished one poet's language from another's? Which words especially contributed to the poem's effect?

Let your definition accumulate as you read more and more poems. Discover for yourself poetry's many ingredients, its many effects, and its many ways of acting.

If poetry sounds like Greek to you, first read it silently, then aloud. Paraphrase lines. Put them into your own words. A poem is more than rhythms and lines.

One of the most important aspects of appreciating poetry is extensive reading. When was the last time you read works by: Billy Collins, Hayden Carruth, Pablo Neruda, William Carlos Williams, e.e. cummings or Sylvia Plath, to name a few?

Start now. Get yourself a good anthology of poetry, a collection of works of famous and popular poets. Soon you will find the poet that appeals to you the most. Before long, I can almost guarantee you'll be adding poetry to your reading list. I can promise you this newly acquired skill will bring you much pleasure.


About the Author
Arlene has been an active member of Writers' Village University since September of 1998. She and a friend, Bob, developed a poetry course at WVU, "The Pleasures of Reading Poetry." She has helped to facilitate poetry and fiction courses. Arlene has had a number of her poems published, including Leaving Stalag 17, recently published in The Journal of the American Medical Association.

Arlene graduated from the University of Washington with a B.A. in Education, Speech and Hearing Therapy and a minor in Literature. She now resides in the outskirts of Vancouver, B.C.



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Poetics Presents

David Nourse

David Nourse is a retired government administrator and former part-time computer journalist who has lived in Canberra, Australia's national capital, since 1975. Dave recently joined Writers' Village University to try his hand at creative writing, especially poetry, which he finds a refreshing change from official correspondence and software reviews.

The Photograph

Today I sent a friend, far distant from these shores,
a photo of myself.
The camera caught an ageing, battered man, held captive in a wheelchair,
his grizzled hair and greying beard
sparse-stubbled like a wheatfield deep in drought.

They say the camera never lies, but this one did;
I'm not that man.

No — unchanged in essence since my early years,
I'm striving still to cross the mountain range
that stretches out before me.

These are no snowy ramparts, reaching for the heavens
with the arrogance of youth, no pretty peaks for postcards,
not in this ancient land,
but a cunning maze of crest and valley, eroded escarpments
deceitfully concealed by gloom-filled forests.

My crumpled, sweat-stained map says "Here Be Dragons" — well, not quite:
no bold adventurer would bother with this dreary place,
abounding in dead ends. I have found not a few of them...

And yet I do continue: for often there are days of light,
when the path atop the ridges stands out clear,
the mists disperse, and I can see for miles.

Copyright ©2003 by David Nourse


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Poetics Presents

Sarah Sloat

Sarah Sloat grew up in New Jersey in a family focused on reading and writing. She began writing poetry seriously last year after joining WVU. Widely travelled, Sarah lives in Germany, where she works as an assignment editor for a news agency. She lives in Frankfurt with her husband and two children.

Asian Song

After the breakup,
my mother handed down her china -
Asian Song.

As in childhood,
given a full plate of food,
I wasn't allowed to say no.

Round white dishes edged in gold,
mauve blossoms inclining inwards,
floral spray on vine-like stems.

I left it packed away for weeks,
the word 'Fragile' clearly marked
in black block letters.
Then piece by piece it unfolded,
the familiar song of countless meals:
the echo of my father's laugh,
the scent of mother's cooking,
children running 'round the table,
heads bowed, hands held,
year in, year out.

A complete set delivered whole:
12 plates, 12 bowls,
12 cups with saucers,
platter, pitcher, sugar bowl,
tea pot and gravy boat.

Asian Song -
how many years
did the pattern sing
our family's sustenance.

Distant song -
how many years of washing up
I never noticed
the scissoring leaves
near the frail and twisted stems.

Copyright ©2003 by Sarah Sloat


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Recognitions

Joan McNulty Pulver

Welcome to Recognitions, a column dedicated to proclaim the writing successes of Writers' Village University members!

Nancy Conner won first place for the Mainstream Novel category and Best of Show (winning first place over the other winners in every category) in the Frontiers in Writing 2003 contest sponsored by the Panhandle Professional Writers for her novel-in-progress, The Ashton Place. “When I got the e-mail saying I'd won both Best Mainstream Novel and Best of Show, I was thrilled. My family wondered why all that screaming was coming from my office! Writing is such a solitary pursuit that it's easy to lose perspective or to feel like no one is ever going to want to read a word you write. Getting some outside acknowledgment has been wonderfully encouraging. It's re-energized my writing.”

Nancy took F2K (free writing class sponsored by Writers’ Village University) in 2001 and liked it so much she decided to join WVU. “WVU put me in touch with a wonderful group of writers who support and challenge me.” She is currently a member of the Persist and Publish study group.

On a more personal note, Nancy works as a freelance editor, but she’s hoping before too long to be the author some other editor works with. 

Susan Porter wrote a letter to her mother for CeLEBRATIONS-notes to my mother, an anthology put together by Paul Andrew Dawkins, to be published by the Adassa Prendegast Publishers to benefit the Dawkins Project, an organization to help children and those who help children. More of Susan's letters will follow in the CeLEBRATIONS series. Her publishing credits include Aviation Maintenance, Discipleship Journal (DJ+), and Women Alive! She writes under the topic Women of God at Suite101.com. View her latest article at http://www.christianwomanspage.org/miscauth/susanporter/index.htm.  “What a joy to share with others what you've learned, experienced, and observed."

Susan's byline first appeared in her high school magazine. After teaching school and getting married, she returned to writing through her journals. While taking a correspondence course, Susan wrote and published an article based on journal entries, finding her niche in the Christian and women's markets.

After taking the F2K class last year, Susan now participates in poetry and nonfiction classes at WVU. "I love to learn and encourage others in their writing."

Mary Matsumoto’s recently published story, The Parade, appeared in the online magazine, Centotaph Pocket Edition, on August 19, 2003. Mary's numerous publishing credits include both print and online media. “In order to have one story accepted for publication, I have had to endure many rejections, so I am always very elated to get an acceptance. It keeps me going. Makes me want to write another piece. In other words, it makes my day!”

Mary joined WVU in May of 2000 and belongs to the Persist and Publish study group. “Taking the F2K class was what motivated me to join WVU. I've learned a lot. There are so many courses I'd love to take but don't have the time for. I always feel as if I've just touched the surface. I'm very active in the university, but considering how much is here, I don't think a person could take advantage of it all if he could spend 24 hours a day tapping into everything. I always recommend WVU to other writers.”

With over 200 people-oriented feature articles published in eight different newspapers in the past, Mary attempts to write about the endearing traits she discovered through hundreds of personal interviews with people living in both rural and urban America. Some of her stories include: Fuzzynet (Play Ball), Palace of Reason (Tango Lessons), Retrozine (The Jazz Musician and The Toy in the Cereal Box), Cenotaph, Pocket Edition (The Phone Call and The Parade), New England Writers' Network (One More Time), The Storyteller (Things Aren't Always What They Seem), Mocha Memoirs (The Gentleman), Hackwriters (Daddy's Little Girl), Coffee Press Journal (The Letter at the Bottom of the Drawer and The Battle of the Bowls), and Laughter Loaf (Mike's Binoculars and The Dental Appointment).

“In the realm of fiction, I enjoy attending conferences and taking college and online courses on all facets of writing, as well as participating in various writer's groups, locally and online. Besides over 100 stories, I've also managed to write two novels (one of which is only in its first draft). Much of my work has been done by doing assignments here at WVU.”

Elizabeth Willett, aka Bett, told Marcia Preston, editor of ByLine Magazine, “I have a houseful of company, and now I am down with strep throat. This was going to be a really bad day until I opened my mail and found a $25.00 check and a notice that I had taken second prize in ByLine Magazine's Humorous Poem category with my poem, A Lovely Day in June. What great medicine!” The next day Elizabeth received her copy of the September edition of the magazine in the mail and saw the honorable mention for her other poem, Windows. “My husband, family and the Word Weavers group at WVU had to suffer through another round of gleeful crowing.” Published monthly, ByLine Magazine is a print magazine by and for freelance writers and poets.

September 13, 2003 was a big day for Elizabeth when she found out she had been named Poet of the Week on the Poetry Super Highway. She submitted seven poems and all were selected to be on-line for the week of September 14 – September 21, 2003. After that it will be in the Past Featured Poets archive section. "All seven poems were either written in Writers' Village courses, or revised with the help of Word Weavers' poets."

A former school teacher/administrator, Elizabeth has a BA in Education and an MA in Educational Administration with a Reading Specialist Endorsement. "I inconvenienced students from grade two through grad school at one time or another." She lives in Florida or New Jersey, depending on the season, with her indulgent husband and two eccentric cats. She dabbles at designing web sites, four of which are currently online.

Elizabeth joined Word Weavers study group at WVU. “The peer support is very valuable. I receive critiques of my work and how to improve, tips on great web sites, books to read, favorite poets and so much more. In the Word Weavers group, not only do the members share with each other, but we participate in group tasks such as the Poetry Marathon and the current Imagery workshop. I am taking as many poetry courses as possible; just now I am in P103 Poetry Workshop with Jim Hall and enjoying it very much.”

Congratulations Nancy, Susan, Mary and Elizabeth. We wish you continued success in all your writing endeavors.

We look forward to reading about your writing accomplishments in this column. If you or someone you know received recognition for writing, please send the information to recognitions@wvu.org. Let us know!



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Signs of Life

Nancy L. Horner

Gertrude's Farmer Saves the Day

One of my husband's favorite places on the planet is a hilltop in the Wiltshire region of England, just outside Swindon. To get to the top of that hill you have to drive up a steep incline on a road so narrow—often bordered by tall hedges—that there's not enough room for two cars to pass each other unless one of them has a lay-by to pull into. When I first saw that road, I had already been holding onto my seat with a white-knuckle grip, occasionally screaming, "Curb!" or just, "Aaaaaaaa!" to my husband for at least 10 minutes as we drove through the streets of Swindon. Judging your position in the left-hand lane is difficult when you're accustomed to the opposite side of the road; and I thought David was judging rather badly.

"Oh, my gosh," I said as I saw the steep incline and the narrow road ahead of us. "That looks just like the road in the nightmare I've been having all my life. You know, the one where I head up the hill and the car can't make it, so I start to roll backwards?"

"You’ll love it," David said.

As we headed up the hill, I could do nothing but periodically squeak when another vehicle headed our way and we were forced to quickly find a lay-by to pull into.

Finally, we reached the top and pulled into a parking lot. A handful of other tiny cars were scattered about and we passed a few people walking bicycles as we began our walk. David led me across a field and then over a fence with steps up one side and down the other, into the midst of dozens of sheep. The sheep were extraordinarily friendly and unfazed by our presence. We hiked through the grazing sheep for a time.

There was a final gate to walk through and then we reached our destination: Barbary Castle. Actually, there's no castle remaining because Barbary Castle was an Iron Age fortification. From the top of a mound that I assumed to be the home of the former keep, I turned around full circle and saw exactly why David considered this spot one of his favorite places in the world. The view is spectacular. In almost every direction, the hill sweeps down to breathtaking green expanse dotted with trees and glowing with the lights of the distant city and the occasional farmhouse. I've never seen anything more beautiful. We didn't stay long, though, because the light was growing dim and the wind was brisk and cold.

The second time we visited the castle, one of David's employees was with us. The sheep were gone and there were no other visitors to the historic site. The month was November and our winter coats, which are meant for our mild Mississippi weather, were inadequate against the sharp, stiff wind. We stood at the top of the keep, shivering, and looked out across the fortification. This time, I could see the shape of the fortification and visualize where the walls once stood at the top of the mounds of soil. Toby was fascinated and took off, walking around the top edge of the mounds.

Unfortunately, the walk around the exterior is immense. As David and I savored the view with our scarves pulled tightly around our necks, we realized the light was once again dimming and we needed to start heading back to the car. We looked off into the distance.

"Where's Toby?" I asked.

David looked across the fortification. "Over there," he said, pointing at the white jeans barely visible in the distance.

"Oh, my gosh. It's going to take him forever to get back here." An entire little village used to live inside these walls, I thought. The word "small" definitely did not apply. Down below us, a lone man walked his dog in the direction of the parking lot.

We started jumping up and down, waving in the hopes that Toby would see us and return a bit faster. No luck, so we simply waited, watching the sky darken and the lights sparkle brighter at the bottom of the hill.

Finally, Toby made it back and we hurried to our rental car. David cranked the heat to warm our frozen fingers and toes as he headed toward the exit. Suddenly, he threw on the brakes. "Shoot!”"

"What? What's wrong?" I asked from the backseat. I leaned around to see what was going on. Up ahead of us, the headlights illuminated a gate. "Oh, I didn't know there was a gate," I said numbly. "Well, can't you just swing it open?"

"There's a chain with a padlock, Nan," David replied. Sure enough, the gate was not just closed, it was solidly locked.

"Huh," Toby said. "Maybe it's not really locked—just wrapped around the gate."

David and Toby climbed out of the car to check.

"No luck?" I asked as they climbed back into the car. I could already tell the answer from the little noises of frustration.

"They're determined not to let anyone in after hours, that's for sure," Toby answered.

"And it's too far to walk to town for help."

"There's got to be someone around who can open it," David said. "I noticed there was a path off to the side of the gate. We could see if that leads to a house, somewhere so we could at least ask."

"Sounds like a plan," Toby agreed.

"You stay here and warm up," David told me. "We'll walk on down that path and check it out."

I nodded then watched as the two men disappeared from the circle of light, down behind dark leaves.

Quite some time later, the men returned and climbed into the car, chuckling. Outside, a wrinkled, gray-haired fellow in work clothing removed the chain and pulled the gate open. He looked, to put it mildly, a bit put out.

"He's pretty peeved," David said, "He said we didn't pay attention to the sign. Made us wait till he finished feeding the geese."

"I didn't see a sign."

"Me either."

We could see the farmer was muttering angrily as we passed by.

"All the geese had names," David told me as he pulled through.

As he told me about Gertrude, who apparently was more interested in heading to the pond than eating her dinner, I looked back toward the entrance. Outside the gate was a tiny sign that said the historic area closed at 4:00 p.m.

"Oh, there is a sign," I said. "It’s really small. We'll have to remember that, the next time we're here."

"Yeah, I think we'd better," David said. "I don't think we can count on Gertrude's friend saving the day twice."



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

Writer's Read The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Writer's Read

Wynelda-Ann Deaver


Last night the moon hung low in the sky, pregnant with possibility. I wondered what one of my characters would think if they saw that moon. Would it be full of possibility? Since I write fantasy, would it be a way of marking the seasons? Or an omen? If it had been a harvest moon, it definitely would be an omen.

One of my greatest failures in writing is my ability to create rich details. I tend to focus on character and action when writing. And yet I yearn to become better, to learn to make the setting a vibrant part of my writing. I’ve read books where the setting was almost as much a character as the hero. For example:
“A yellow full moon hung over the city, painting a rippling gold path across the face of the harbor below. The air was dead still, as if the whole city was holding its breath. No sea breeze cut the fetid summer smell of the streets. Ki’s torch hardly flickered as they rode slowly along. The tall stone buildings that lined the high street gave back the clatter of hooves and the mournful throbbing of the drums.” (Hidden Warrior, by Lynn Flewelling, pg. 249)
I want to be able to write like that. Where a few sentences pull the reader not only into the world, but also into the mood of the scene. In five sentences, Flewelling invoked sight, sound, smell. The description of the “fetid summer smell” almost qualifies as taste and touch too. Can you feel the oppression of the heat, the smell? I can.

Authors like Flewelling make me want to become a better writer. I want my readers to feel the same way that they make me feel. I want to be able to take my readers into a whole new world, help them forget the cares of the world. I’m reaching for that next level because of the books I read.

Good talk. Now how does a writer make that goal attainable? How do you even begin to reach for something that seems so far away from where you’re at now? Baby steps, my dear readers, baby steps.

A goal has to be attainable in order for it to mean anything. I’ve chosen things that will help me reach my goal. The first step was to start marking the world around me in my journal. I went out to the park, sat down in the shade provided by the sentry trees, and started writing. I caught bits of dialogue, sights, and sounds. One pine tree looked exactly like a crooked witch’s hat. On top of that tree was a raven. While I sat out there on a lazy Sunday, that raven chased a hawk away. Yes. A raven chased a hawk, protecting its young.

I filled pages and pages in my journal that day. I’ve done it in stolen moments since then, catching the way a sunset looks like an oil painting painted just for me. Or how the two trees where I work change into their fall colors: one is a symphony of red and gold, the other a cacophony of carnival colors.

The second thing I’ve done is to realize that I need to put exactly what I need for feedback in my study group in Writers' Village University. I’ve spoken to some of the members of my group, and they’ve agreed to help me. It helps that almost, if not all, of the members of the group are writers that I admire and trust. If anyone can help me with my goals, it is them.

The next step is to start putting my money where my mouth is. So I’m off, to re-write the first chapter of a novel that I started a while back ago. The characters are wonderful, the story line good. I stopped working on it because I knew that my short-story style of setting would not work in a novel. But I now have the tools to begin to change that style, and an attainable goal.




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