Karen’s Red Shoes

By Wendy Werdan

Karen has a fit,
and drops to
the floor. Her face is
pale, empty,
and she isn’t breathing.
Her frame once flexible, tightens
and compresses.
I hold her
on her side, while she bridges
to an unconscious
world.
She looks possessed
as she bangs
her head
on the ground, and her
shoes dance
wildly.
Blood flows from her nose,
her glasses cut into
her forehead,
and froth dribbles out
her mouth.
She moans intensely.
Her red shoes slide off,
and then her body
softens.
Her words are unclear,
her faculties begin to
restore,
she is confused, has a headache.
As in Hans Andersen’s tale,
Karen’s heart fills with sunshine,
peace, and joy. My angel smiles
at me, and then falls asleep.

Writing - Opening Lines

By Kathy (Kat) W

I try to learn from the authors I read. While struggling with the opening to my novel, I pulled about a dozen books off the shelf and read the first page or two of each, focusing on how the sentences and paragraphs were constructed as well as the information imparted. I've read all of these books more than once and so could recognize how ideas presented were developed later. The process helped me finally get a beginning for my story.

Here are some examples of opening lines I like:

HORSES AT DAWN

"The buckskin horse walked up Allen Street just before dawn." Territory, by Emma Bull. The narrator doesn't interpret anything in this sentence. The lack of opinionated adjectives or adverbs enhances the sense that *you* are seeing this horse, and "just before dawn" there probably aren't many other people to see it. (The cover lets you know this is a Western, so the fact of a horse walking up the street isn't remarkable in itself.)

"The first rays of the sun silhouetted Rifkind as she sat her war-horse and gazed on the ruin of her clan." Daughter of the Bright Moon, by Lynn Abbey. Unlike Bull's very tightly focused sentence, this gives a panoramic view. The camera/narrator is viewing the scene from an angle where Rifkind is silhouetted, and pans to what she sees. "Ruins of her clan" is interpretive, not a literal description, and it immediately presents a problem!

SIMPLE BUT ELEGANT

"The little boy was frightened." Dream Snake, by Vonda N. McIntyre. We are pulled toward his POV; we don't know if we would be scared in the same situation. And it engages us through our natural desire to protect a child.

"Katie saw him first." "Cryptic Coloration," by Elizabeth Bear. This short story also opens in the middle of things without setting a scene. We're with Katie, who is probably not alone as she was "first." We have yet to discover who was seen.

INTRICATE

"They say that the prospect of being hanged in the morning concentrates a man's mind wonderfully; unfortunately, what the mind inevitably concentrates on is that, in the morning, it will be in a body that is going to be hanged." Going Postal, by Terry Pratchett. This immediately introduces us to a strong, story telling narrative voice, not an invisible omniscient narrator. The sentence feels balanced; the second half almost restates the first half but with an added twist. It's funny; and we know that someone is in trouble.

"Matthew the Magician leaned against a wrought iron lamppost on Forty-second Street, idly picking at the edges of his ten iron rings and listening to his city breathe into the warm September night." Blood and Iron, by Elizabeth Bear. I love this sentence for its density, for the volume of information presented along with the image. The identification of Matthew as "the Magician" makes this a fairy tale beginning. The juxtaposition of 42nd Street and the iron rings sets up a contrast between two worlds. And Matthew idly picking at those rings in "his city" shows he's comfortable in both.

Do you agree with my assessment of these openings? Please share some opening lines from works you admire and let us know why you like them.

The Dolphin Is Also A Fish

By Vic Larson

In February of 1984 my fascination with the TV show Flipper led me to the Kewalo Basin Marine Mammal Lab in Honolulu as a month-long participant in Project Earthwatch. Teaching Dolphins Language was enticingly presented in a catalog of volunteer-funded worldwide scientific research projects.

"If you've come here in search of Flipper you're going to be severely enlightened."

I had. I was. And in my opinion, Project Director, Lou Herman, could have waited a few days to burst our collective bubble.

He continued, "The dolphins we’re teaching are wild animals captured for scientific purposes, nothing like those you'll find at Sea World, raised in captivity."

Flipper was wild, I thought to myself.

"And for those of you who are concerned about restaurants with "dolphin" on their menus...don't be. That dolphin is a species of fish unrelated to the mammals we'll be studying."

He continued to warn of the dangers involved with wild animal research of this kind. Being intensely social creatures, Phoenix and Akeakamai, our two "girls" as they were known, required hours of tankside play. That was part of our job. The remainder of the day would be spent tossing various objects into the tanks where the dolphins were kept waiting for visual and auditory cues such as, "Take Ball to Basket."

Notes were taken, objects retrieved and the dolphins were praised, hugged and fed for a proper response. That would be the order of operations for the coming weeks: command respond, reward…command, respond, reward. The dolphins knew it well and came to expect it of us. How well they understood would later be revealed to me in a private training session, the results of which have never been recounted until now, perhaps to the detriment of those running the decades-long project.

Like any job, the routine became boring and repetitive. And there were distractions. The views of Diamondhead, daily rainbows over the hills, and the fragrances of flowers, native cooking and suntan lotion filled the air.

Myths were constantly de-bunked. For instance, it was pointed out that the only reports of sailors being led to shore by dolphins came from those who survived the experience. Those who were taken in the opposite direction obviously gave no account of their misfortune. Dolphins love to push objects through the water, and as the equivalent of approximately an 800-pound muscle, can do so with considerable force and ease.

In-tank encounters were thus forbidden. Nor was safety out of the water a given. An irritable dolphin could signal for a "hug" at one moment, tire of the experience without notice and attempt to bat your head away like a tennis ball off a racket a moment later. After all, they were wild dolphins.

Over two weeks our lily-white winter complexions began to tan evenly. Defending against exposure to intense tropical sun with varying levels of sunblock produced a comical patchwork quilt effect on tanning shoulders and arms. A spot left untreated was scorched. Pale handprints were not uncommon. Thirty minutes unprotected was dangerous, and we were outside eight hours a day.

Changes took place during the third week at the lab, which was unfortunate for two-week volunteers. The "girls" began to recognize us. This undocumented behavior made the experience worthwhile. Previously oblivious to us as we wandered around the tank in the morning, we would now be greeted tankside by a bobbing pair of noses, playfully splashing and chirping to get our attention (you know that Flipper sound…), rising out of the water in the "hug me" position. It was heartwarming, comparable only to the tail-wagging dog/master feeling I'd known before.

After-hours tankside was, by dolphin decree, off limits to humans. They were territorial and capable of splashing an unwelcome loiterer to a point just short of drowning. “Get away” was the clear message.

One memorable evening I sauntered over to the tank, hot and uncomfortable, looking to be splashed. The girls were docile, swimming slowly clockwise at the surface around the edge of the circular pool while I stood watching. The moon was full and the air was calm. The only sounds were those of the gently lapping tiny waves created by the motion of the dolphins through the water, and the rising and falling of the surf in the distant ocean. In a bold move I leaned over the edge of the concrete tank, dangling my hands in the water within reach of the two swimmers.

As each approached I held my breath, expecting a deserved and inevitable splash. Two or three laps later, Phoenix and Ake (Ah-Kay) were still calmly swimming past my immersed hands, now rolling a quarter turn to gaze upward at my face and then swim on. A progressively more intimate relationship developed over the course of a half hour that evening. Phoenix initiated the responses and Ake followed suit. Their quarter turn roll became gradually more pronounced and the pace slowed as Phoenix extended her left flipper above the water's surface, first in a salute and on subsequent passes, in a sort of handshake, a touch.

Several curious Earthwatchers joined me and no one spoke. All extended their hands toward the dolphins, touching, stroking, and caressing extended fins - firm, rubbery and wet. We watched each other, the dolphins and I. I gazed into their oh-so-human eyes, so much like my own that they appeared misplaced in this fishy form, and I gradually became aware of the link that was broken somewhere in an ancient familial path that sent us on our separate evolutionary ways. Myths spawned by the old Samoans of reincarnated warriors in dolphin form became obvious manifestations of this kind of encounter.

Soon the girls resumed their normal swimming pattern and we dropped back from the tank lest we ruin the moment with a splashy awakening. We withdrew to the moon shadows near the back of the lab and spoke in hushed tones. A second year assistant from California, a surfer, spoke for us all, saying, "dude...that was awesome!"

But that was just a hint of what was to come.

Several mornings later, daily tankside prep and cleanup was in progress. I moved the usual research objects into place for our morning training session: beachball, surfboard, basket, Frisbee. The sun was scorching as always, and the dolphins swam leisurely in their pool. Phoenix watched me over the edge of the concrete tank, a wall about four and a half feet high. Each circular tank was equipped with a central drain and a watertight access door to allow entry for cleaning. The door was several steps down, with a two-foot square plate glass window that provided underwater viewing. That the dolphin was watching me was quite unusual. They tended to ignore us until appointed times for feeding, work or play. Because of this, I pretended to ignore her, relying only on my peripheral view for fear of scaring the watcher off. As minutes elapsed, water began showering lightly over my shoulders. I was being intentionally splashed, but not in the usual aggressive way. This was an attempt to gain my attention.

I turned and faced my assailant, wished her good-morning and asked, “What are you up to?” Upon making eye contact, the dolphin quickly swam away as I’d feared she would. But she bobbed immediately to the surface of the water in the area by the underwater door, and then returned to her original position. Splashing water in the direction of the door, she dove again, disappeared under the surface, and now that I was paying attention, re-appeared, framed in the underwater window. Not only was this inordinately cute, deliberate and unprecedented, but the behavior held within it an equation that struck a chord I’d been taught to recognize: command, respond, reward.

It took several repetitions before the stupid human in this scene understood the dolphin’s intentions.

Command: splash toward the door.
Respond: greet at the underwater window.

And with that, I walked toward the door, quickly descended the steps and met my dolphin counterpart face to face at the viewing port. All that was missing was a reward. And with that, the face behind the glass disappeared and the entire body popped above the surface of the water, extending in the “hug” position. My reward: command, respond, reward.

I’d been trained. Oh my God! The dolphin had trained me. I was a bit of a slow learner, but I eventually understood and was changed forever in my estimation of animal intelligence and my sense of place in this amazing world.

My month of participation was over. On the plane back to Chicago I paged through project literature. No such experiences were alluded to or mentioned. Lou Herman's words echoed in my head, “.... severely enlightened." He knew. And now I did too. “Like, totally better than Flipper, dude." I laughed under my breath, gazing out the window of the plane as Diamondhead slowly receded beneath the billowing white clouds.

"It"

By Wendy Werdan

I create in torment,
as “it”
paints a picture.

It moves in me,
like a brush
moves on canvas.

So much to do,

to start,
to stop,
be anxious,
and revise.

Feverishly, I labor,
until “it” moves
from me—
to you.

The Worst Sunburn EVAR

By Matthew Warnock

O.M.G., no wait, make that O.M.F.G. I have the worst sunburn EVAR! And BTW, it is all Becky’s fault.

K, so my parents were all like, “We’re going camping. It’ll be fun and stuff.” And I was all “I don’t want to pee in the bushes. You better not make me pee in the bushes or my Tweets of rage will make you quake with fear.”

They didn’t quake with fear. They didn’t even jiggle with fear.

So I told Becky that we were going up to Wisconsin and were going to be camping and canoeing and all that and she said at least I could work on my tan and not have to worry about getting a burn.

U c, Becky is all super smart about science and stuff. She totally got a B minus in Mr. Dole’s super boring science class. I only got a C. Anyway, she said that it was chemically impossible to get a sunburn because of all the cheese fumes in the air.

It’s like smog in LA. Plus, Wisconsin is totally up in the Arctic Circle and they only get a little bit of actual sunlight every year.

I was hoping I could at least get a little bit of a tan, you know, set the foundation for the epic tan I would get back home, so I didn’t put on any sunblock. We got up to the campground, and it was totally bug city. Plus, there were port-a-potties. Gross.

After coating myself with bug spray and vowing not to go to the bathroom all weekend, my parents said we were going canoeing. It was non-negotiable.

So I tried to bemoan my fate to all my Twitter followers while my parents rowed us down the river. But apparently, they don’t believe in proper cell phone reception in campingville. There were bugs, and everything smelled like just after it rains and all the worms come out of the ground and you have to watch where you step if you don’t want to trail worm guts all over the place. Yuck.

And there was the sun. And it was hot, like hella hot. But I was ok because Becky said I didn’t have to worry about it. And my parents were all like “you put on sunscreen right?” And I was all “Totally, whatever you say.”

Well Becky was wrong. By the time we got back to camp my skin was as red as the the boring apples my mom packed for the trip instead of the yummy chocolate chip cookies I asked for. There were even a few gross blisters. My parents said something about wearing sunscreen and not wanting to get skin cancer, blah, blah, blah. Then I took my bottle of yummy smelling lotion and retreated to the tent for the next two days.
K, so, lesson learned, Becky is way dumb, and canoeing without sunscreen means a mega sunburn.

Why do YOU love to write?

Why I love To Write

I love the sound the keys make on the keyboard.
I love how letters and words look and sound.
I love to purge myself of my thoughts.
I love to impact people positively with what I write.
I love the process of taking what’s in my brain and putting it on paper.

And why do you love to write?

Chronic Fatigue...AGAIN!

By Sandy Kamen Wisniewski

Twenty-two years ago today I had my first child. If you would have asked me what I remember most of those early days I would without a doubt say: lack of sleep and the never-ending, walk-around-like-a-zombie fatigue that went with it. Oh how I remembered that. It was by far the one thing I disliked most about those early years with my kids. But just as I got used to a steady rhythm of eight luscious hours of cozy a night I came face to face with the same old challenge yet again when I looked into the brown eyes of my dimple-faced newborn grandson Danny.

That was three years ago. Yesterday I went out to dinner with a girl friend whose child is nearly 21 years old. We went to Olive Garden, a local restaurant, that’s food is consistent and tasty and the décor pleasant and cozy - all-important qualities this tired parent needs in scarce time away from a toddler. My hair was frizzy, I had bags under my eyes and was quite disheveled, especially next to my ever-so-perky friend who hasn’t missed a wink in over a decade and a half. She kept looking at me with concern and asking me over and over again, “are you okay?”

Was I okay? My foggy brain had to think that through the first time around. “Well,” I told her, “I have a three-year-old at home. So I’m tired.” That didn’t seem to satisfy her. So she asked again and again. I must have really looked like crap.

The following morning she texted me, “Are you feeling better today?” I wanted to say, ‘Do you remember when your child was little? Obviously not. Ask me every day and I will likely say the same: I’m tired! I am not sick or depressed, I just have a three-year-old!’

Oh how I wish I knew other grandmother’s raising grandchildren to commiserate with! Observing parents from afar, their faces remind me of mine the first time around. Their expressions are a combination of innocence, fatigue, vague happiness and hope. I sometimes see determination, idealism and a longing for something else. I feel like a wise old woman next to them, even though I am only 44.

Parenting, I would say to them, is so very difficult, especially if one tries to do right, and even then much is out of your control, especially the older a child gets. Who children become ultimately falls on them no matter how hard you try and letting go begins the moment they enter this world. But I would never say that to new parents because they walk around mostly with blinders on and frankly I don’t want to be considered the barer of bad news. Well, it’s not really bad news but factual and not so bad if you just come to terms with it.

Twenty-two years ago today I had my first child. Today is my daughter’s birthday - Danny’s mother. God willing, I have another two decades of parenting ahead of me. I’m braced for the challenges, will do my best, will love many, many aspects of it but YES I AM TIRED!!!!!

One Side of the Conversation

By Kathy W.

You’ll find it an easy recipe. A classic. You probably have most of the ingredients in your cabinet right now, will only have to gather one or two. Then you’ll be on your way to, well, let’s use the euphemism of wedded bliss. Why a euphemism you ask? I’m old and don’t stand with that straightforward modern nonsense. But you’ll get what you want from this one, dearie. There’s a guarantee. You must call back about how you get on.

~ ~ ~ ~ :: :: ~ ~ ~ ~

Yes, dearie? Oh, you don’t seem to have any henbane? None down by the river at all? Tsk. What are things coming to. No, you can’t get it from me. You must collect it fresh during a waxing gibbous. You thought full? You thought that was more powerful? You youngsters. Dear, you want growth, and to get that you can’t harvest when everything is already at it’s maximum, now, can you. You’ll just have to wait. Do call back.

~ ~ ~ ~ :: :: ~ ~ ~ ~

There are no proper mandrake roots this time of year? Have you looked? Yes? You have amazed me, you truly have. You could always find good mandrake anytime it was needed back when ... sorry, you don’t want to hear about how things were in the old days.

~ ~ ~ ~ :: :: ~ ~ ~ ~

You find the bats are diseased and you fear their noses won’t work as needed. All are covered in white fuzz. You can substitute dried wing, you know. You have no stock of dried bat wings in storage? None? In the past you’ve always avoided recipes that called for them? You haven’t hunted for bats since you were eight? Tsk, tsk, dearie. You young witches certainly ... Yes, do call back.

~ ~ ~ ~ :: :: ~ ~ ~ ~

It didn’t work for you and you want to know about that guarantee. Did you mix it with his potatoes? Did you encourage things along? Are you sure you followed the recipe exactly? Youngsters often get impatient about some of the more time consuming steps. Waiting for the proper phase of the moon took longer than you planned, and having to travel for a week to locate healthy bats set you back a bit as well. But truly, dearie, if you’d had everything at hand the mixture would have been ready to use in a month. Yes, a month. Did I leave that part off? Tsk. In the old days these things were just understood by all, no need for written down recipes. You ... ah, you want to know what I left off. Yes, dearie, of course. It must be soaked in sadness for a month or all the rest is just a waste of time.

DOGS RULE

By Alan Barasky

It was the damn cat’s fault that Cindy and I broke up.

Cindy knew I hated the sneaky, stuck-up little fur ball, but she had still staged a one-woman filibuster to get me to take Whiskers while she consoled her just dumped best friend with a last-minute girls weekend in Vegas.

“She won’t be any bother at all!” Cindy had cooed in that “I’ll make it worth your while” voice all girls seem to instinctively use to manipulate their boyfriends. “She has her own litter box” (meaning I have to let an animal crap in my house all weekend), “I just had her nails done, so she can’t scratch you” (though we both know she wants to) “and she’ll probably just ignore you altogether” (an emotionally satisfying weekend for me).

I caved, of course – never had a chance – so on Friday night I was watching Whiskers stalk the leg of my coffee table and wondering if any of the guys could sneak away to O’Douls for a brew and maybe a game of eight ball.

My doorbell rang and as I opened the door for my brother-in-law, Kirk – another fight with my sister, judging from his hangdog look – out scooted Whiskers, right between both sets of legs.

“You gotta be shittin’ me,” I grumbled in Kirk’s face.

“What?” he protested. “Your sister’s impossible! Come on, you lived with her!”

“You didn’t see the cat, huh?”

“Cat? When did you get a cat?”

“Cindy’s. I’m watching the damn thing for her and it just ran out the door. Help me find it.”

“I thought cats didn’t run away. Isn’t that like the only reason to have one instead of a dog?”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’ll be out in a sec. I gotta get a beer first. Want one?”

“Sure.”

While Kirk raided my stash of Miller Lites, I looked around the front yard for a black cat – at night, with clouds covering the moon and my unincorporated neighborhood still waiting for long promised streetlights. The only light that penetrated the inky gloom came from the stop sign at the intersection down the street. It was one of those rural signs that was lit up so that drivers who’d been cruising for miles without having to slow down would be sure to see it. Bulbs blinked around its perimeter, but from where I stood about a hundred yards away, all I could see was an octagon that alternately came to life and disappeared. Not much help for a one-man search party.

I walked across the yard and knew I’d reached my driveway only because the sound my Nikes made changed as they went from grass to blacktop. I couldn’t see a thing.

I walked back inside. Kirk had his feet up on the coffee table, working on his second beer and watching the Cubs new rookie pitcher blow gas past the Cardinals. I settled in next to him on the sofa.

“You know,” I said to Kirk as I popped open my first cold one, “my next girlfriend’s gotta have a dog.”

No More Fireworks

By Jeff Segal

The thing between me and Jackie was like July 4th, only backwards. It started with fireworks and ended with a hangover.

We crashed July 3rd at Jackie’s place on Maple Avenue. It seemed like a good idea at the time, since she’s got a comfy queen bed and my place has a twin mattress on the floor. Plus we were both stupendously drunk, and while it’s only about a half mile drive, it didn’t seem smart to risk running into Officer Unfriendly.

But we forgot one crucial factor. Maple Avenue is where the parade kicks off.

So my first waking sensation on July 4th was a drum major’s whistle piercing my eardrum like a knitting needle. Half a heartbeat later the whole high school band kicked in, our very own Marching Mastodons, blowing so hard their hair must have been standing up inside their domed helmets. Every cymbal crash felt like electroshock therapy. I opened my eyes long enough to meet Jackie’s—bloodshot, crusty and dull—then wrapped myself in the sheet and plodded into the kitchen, where it was dark and ever so slightly quieter. I huddled on the floor in the L of the cabinets, hearing the dishes in the drying rack vibrate with every fire truck that rumbled past.

After the parade, I managed to drive home, shower and change. My condition upgraded from road-kill to miserable, I swung back to pick up Jackie for the company picnic. She answered the door in dark shades and a baseball cap—which I told her looked great, and I meant it—but she stripped and jumped in the shower. I lay back on the bed to wait, and when I woke up, she was already dressed. Damn.

Now, we’d never talked about how to handle this picnic. A few of our coworkers knew we were dating, but so far we’d kept it strictly professional at the office. I figured we’d just see how the day went.

First stop, the beer tent. I ran into Carlos and we got to talking about his new department head, and then Big Mike came by and it was just like the old days. Jackie drifted off with her smoke break posse. The next time I saw her was after the kickball game, and when I asked if I could get her a hot dog she said no, she already ate. We stood together without talking for a couple of minutes, and it hit me that I was more relaxed and had more fun when I was pretending we weren’t dating.

I said, “Come back to my place tonight?”

She said, “No, I’m just gonna head home.”

And that was it. I saw her later, during the fireworks, her upturned face lit by a blue flash that sparkled a few seconds and faded. The rockets soared and exploded, and the speakers played a song about freedom.

Diary of a Struggling Writer

By Sandy Kamen Wisniewski

I quit. I am tired of busting my hump writing only to make pennies for all my hard work. The business of writing stinks, getting a book published is like fifth grade math and eleventh grade algebra all over again. Or worse it’s like all four years of high school, which was one big hormonal, pimple-y, depressing mess.

Writing: the natural high of freedom of expression, spilling my soul out my fingertips, losing myself as I shift from one make believe person to another, that’s what it’s suppose to be about, not all the other crap that goes along with it. The editors that dissect my work, the publishers that are “too busy” to send anything more but a lousy, half-hearted attempt of a form letter telling me my piece doesn’t “fit their needs right now” when really what they are probably thinking is “what a load of garbage.”

Rejection, after rejection after rejection….

Then the other book that I finally found a publisher for just spit it out like so many men spit on sidewalks and walk right past. So I am left to stumble about trying to get people to even notice my story that I worked my ass off to create. I sit at book signings and promotional deals smiling a crooked, plastered on, painful smile knowing full well I write because I hate being around people but here I am stuck sucking up to people just to get my work read.

So I am literally walking away. Who needs the headaches after all? The three articles I was working on, the column that’s due next week and editing the first draft of my next book – forget it. I’m going to grab my fishing rod, pack a bag with jelly donuts, baby carrots and bottled water and head off to some lake somewhere to battle it out with some trout, bass or whatever, and contemplate what the heck I am going to do with my life.

(Pause)

(Breath)

(Reflect)

What would I be if not for my writing?

(Pause)

(Breath)

(Reflect)

No spark, no excitement, no color.

No dancing, no brightness, no friend when I’m feeling lonely or need to vent.


Okay, where was I?

Third chapter twenty-first page…
She burst into the room, the door hitting the wall with a loud smack. Her foot caught on the corner of the Oriental rug and she stumbled, arms outstretched, grabbed the dresser. Her hands smarted. “Here I am!” She announced.

Poetry

By Wendy Werdan

Poetry is a nurturing ecosystem.
A fungus strain
and a custodian underfoot.

It turns the earth,
so life can flourish,
and holds water,
the blood that creates blooms.

Like a mushroom that pops up
with the morning sun,
it attracts animals who dine,
spreads it’s spores
that lay dormant and inactive.

With each step,
we stirs up nutrients,
and poetry surges upward,
breaking down complex substances,
that pollutes the mind,
that liberates us from destruction.

Poetry can survive severe conditions
and adapt, even benefits from the disturbance,
and sometimes,
anticipates the contact.

Idea Generators

By Kat (last name withheld)

I have spent an inordinate amount of time playing at the website serendipity, by Manon http://nine.frenchboys.net/index.php

Name Generators, Place Generators, even an Online Handle Generator! Many, many generators, all in one handy place. Cat Waxing* Site Extraordinaire! You have been warned!

Yes, it will name French boys: Joseph Leclerc, Bernard Marais, Roland Lefevre. And French girls, too: Anne-Elisabeth Feuillette, Coralie Danis, Jeanne Jacqueme. Also Japanese names, Trendy names, Gnome names, and more.

Need a new online handle? SunsetGurl, EbbingMuffin, MeanGothChicken. Maybe you need to name that town your main character is from (or going to): Forest Chase, Belmont Grange, Peach Towers. Need a fantasy place? Highfay, Oldwood, Lightmeadow Forest.

The Chinese Restaurant Generator is one of my favorites, for that little takeout place around the corner: Beijing Pearl, China Pine, Golden Mandarin Garden, and The Happy Pagoda Tea House!

This isn’t just a play around kind site. Many of the names are usable, and there are generators that result in useful information. For example:

A Character: This man is a honest carpenter who is usually businesslike. He has long, straight dark brown hair, grey eyes, and tawny skin. He is fragile with a thin, high-cheekboned face.

A City: This large city stands astride a river and is mainly constructed of red brick. It is defended by arcane spells and its most noteworthy feature is the colorful elven quarter.

A Room: It's an ample room, but quite dreary. The walls are obscured entirely by floor to ceiling bookshelves, broken up by sheer, hospitalish green-beige curtains on the windows.

Those last three could easily be jumping off points for stories. That elven quarter, for example, sounds fascinating or scary as all get-out, depending on the type of elves that live there. This site generates writing seeds. A few things it 'built' for me are now incubating. Hopefully a story or two will result.

Try it out and let us in the Vernon Library group know if it works for you. If you have favorite generator sites, please share them in the comments.

* Cat waxing: any behavior an author undertakes to avoid working on the WIP. No live cats are actually waxed, at least not twice!

Writing Tips

1. Cut the boring parts

I try to leave out the parts that people skip. ~Elmore Leonard

Unless you’re writing for personal reasons alone, you need to consider the attention of your readers. There’s no point is publishing content that isn’t useful, interesting, or both.

2. Eliminate unnecessary words

Substitute “damn” every time you’re inclined to write “very;” your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be. ~Mark Twain

I used to feel that using words like “really”, “actually”, or “extremely” made writing more forceful. It doesn’t. They only get in the way. Cut them and never look back. Write with passion

3. Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart. ~William Wordsworth

It’s not hard to realize that unless you’re excited about your writing no one else will be.

4. Paint a picture

Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass. ~Anton Chekhov

Simply stating something is fine, but when you need to capture attention, using similes, metaphors, and vivid imagery to paint a picture creates a powerful emotional response.

5. Keep it simple

Vigorous writing is concise. ~William Strunk Jr.

Maybe it was all those late nights, struggling to fill out mandatory 10 page papers, but many people seem to think that worthwhile writing is long and drawn out. It’s more difficult (and effective) to express yourself in the simplest possible manner.

6. Do it for love

Write without pay until somebody offers to pay. ~Mark Twain

When you’re just starting out it’s hard to decide where to begin. So don’t. Just start writing. A blog is a good place to start. The most valuable benefit is the feedback.

7. Learn to thrive on criticism

You have to know how to accept rejection and reject acceptance. ~Ray Bradbury

Writing means putting yourself at the mercy of anonymous hecklers and shameless sycophants. Learn to make the most of the insults and distrust the praise.

8. Write all the time

Quantity produces quality. If you only write a few things, you’re doomed. ~Ray BradburyThe way you define yourself as a writer is that you write every time you have a free minute. If you didn’t behave that way you would never do anything. ~John Irving

9. Write what you know … or what you want to know

If any man wish to write in a clear style, let him be first clear in his thoughts; and if any would write in a noble style, let him first possess a noble soul. ~Johann Wolfgang von GoetheLearn as much by writing as by reading. ~Lord Acton

Successful writing is all about trust and authority. It makes sense to write about your area of expertise. If you don’t have an expertise, reading and writing is the best way to develop one and put it on display.

10. Be unique and unpredictable

I owe my success to having listened respectfully to the very best advice, and then going away and doing the exact opposite. ~G.K. ChestertonConsistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative. ~Oscar WildeZest. Gusto. How rarely one hears these words used. How rarely do we see people living, or for that matter, creating by them. Yet if I were asked to name the most important items in a writer’s make-up, the things that shape his material and rush him along the road to where he wants to go, I could only warn him to look to his zest, see to his gusto. ~Ray Bradbury

Following what works will only get you so far. Experiment with new styles, even if it means taking criticism. Without moving forward, you’ll be left behind.

(Credit for the above goes to: http://www.pickthebrain.com/blog/art-of-writing/)

The Draughtsman

By Wendy Werdan

From curled toes to the ankles
I sketch in graphite,
his fibula shrinking with distance,
in a contour line of inner and outer edges,
along the calf,
stretching upwards,
cross-hatching strokes
and irregular line breaks.
I blend and shade,
the ball and socket of his knees,
continuing slowly to his thighs,
and the drapery that flows over them.

No longer two dimensional,
he develops with the smooth form of his gluteus,
arms folded in front of his brawny torso,
rendering the texture of muscles,
linking the rotation of the spinal column.
His broad shoulders emerge,
the curve of his extended neckline progresses
to a blank expression as he looks away,
while his lustrous locks --dangle freely.

Shades of Gray

By Carol Keene

I want my shadow back on the ground beside me,
Not clinging to me, so I have to lug it around
Through the puddles of this doleful, dreary day.
I want it to pat the pavement, fondle the floor,
Caress the curb, grope the ground, and
Stop hanging on me like a whiny four-year old!

March

By Carol Keene

March does not march,
As one would expect.
It's the month that saunters.
March takes her sweet time.
She meanders... dilly-dallies.
She pages through her days
With indecision, often favoring
Shades of gray,
Or blowing entirely white again,
Like January.
Oh, she’ll try on a couple of
Sunny, warm days,
But March finds comfort
In melancholy.
She isn’t about to rush
Into anything as flashy as April.

For A Season

By Carol Keene

You loved me for a season.
The hot season,
Like the lust we wove into a fabric,
Sheer and gossamere as a sundress.

You loved me for a season,
Despite my hopes, my dreams,
It lasted no more than one literal season.
From warm through hot to tepid;
Like water flowing from a faucet
That spews its heat and runs out of
Steam just when you get used to it.

You loved me for a season,
And as our love cooled,
Your voice, no longer melodic,
Became cold, impatient, abrupt.

You loved me for a season,
And fall is what I did
When the heat of summer chilled.

A Poem

By Dave V.

Best of the worst
Worst of the best

Which am I to choose
Which am I to guess

Be it for my life or
Be it for my death

The reason be for this bequest?

Neil Gaiman: 8 Good Writing Tips

1. Write.
2. Put one word after another. Find the right word, put it down.
3. Finish what you're writing. Whatever you have to do to finish it, finish it.
4. Put it aside. Read it pretending you’ve never read it before. Show it to friends whose opinion you respect and who like the kind of thing that this is.
5. Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.
6. Fix it. Remember that, sooner or later, before it ever reaches perfection, you will have to let it go and move on and start to write the next thing. Perfection is like chasing the horizon. Keep moving.
7. Laugh at your own jokes.
8. The main rule of writing is that if you do it with enough assurance and confidence, you’re allowed to do whatever you like. (That may be a rule for life as well as for writing. But it’s definitely true for writing.) So write your story as it needs to be written. Write it honestly, and tell it as best you can. I'm not sure that there are any other rules. Not ones that matter.

From an article in The Guardian

Neil Gaiman has become so popular he is often considered the “rock star” of the literary world. He trades mostly in science fiction and fantasy in a variety of forms—novels, children’s books, graphic novels, comic books, and film. Among his trend-setting works: Coraline, The Graveyard Book and The Sandman series. He takes readers, of all ages, to the very edge of imagination.

Information provided from: http://www.writingclasses.com/InformationPages/index.php/PageID/670

THE FIRST 50 YEARS, 40 YEARS AGO

By Jeff Segal

It is sometime in the early 70’s. An eight-year-old boy sits cross-legged on his bed, turning the glossy pages of a coffee table book spread in front of him. The book is about the National Football League’s first fifty years. The boy is amazed by black-and-white photos of football players wearing helmets that look more like baseball mitts strapped to their heads. (In some pictures the players wear no helmets at all!) There are color photos, too, with exotic exposures highlighting the speed and violence of the game. In one crazy collage of a picture, the stitches of a football appear to be sewn into a man’s massive forearm.

The boy can’t really follow the book’s essays, but he traces his fingers over the arrows on the diagrammed plays, deciphering the X’s and O’s. When the Chicago Bears first deployed the T formation against the Washington Redskins in the 1940 championship game, it was a simple misdirection play that launched the 73-0 rout.

He lingers longest over the four-page, hand-drawn collage illustrating the evolution of the league and its franchises. The Bears and the Packers and the Giants were all there at the beginning, but he marvels the teams that never made it out of the 20’s: Providence Steamrollers! Rock Island Independents! Canton Bulldogs! Duluth Eskimos!

The boy still owns the book, and still enjoys flipping through it, even though—or, maybe, because—it’s as antiquated now as it was modern then. It’s the NFL before there were teams in Tampa and Tennessee, before video review and four-receiver sets and February Super Bowls. Still, the Colts may have moved from Baltimore to Indianapolis, but their uniforms haven’t changed since the 50’s: simple blue and white, with two stripes over the tops of the shoulders and a lone horseshoe on the helmet. Some things change, some stay the same. He imagines an alternate universe where the playoffs would pit the Providence Steamrollers against the Duluth Eskimos, and wonders who he’d root for.

The Fledgling

By Sandy Kamen Wisniewski

The early spring morning brought with it cracks of thunder and impressive lightening streaking the sky. But with all the show there wasn’t much rain and by the afternoon all was quiet and the sun was peeking out through the clouds. My almost three-year-old grandson Danny and I decided to trek over to the park, Danny on his five-dollar garage sale tricycle (I love great buys) and me on foot.

Our visit to the park was pleasant, yet uneventful. On the way back Danny peddled away and my cell phone rang. It was one of my friends checking in to say hello. As I listened to her chatter away I noticed just to the right of us, on the patch of grass between the street and the sidewalk, a small, brown-ash colored bird appear from what must have been behind us. I was momentarily perplexed by where the bird came from but the question quickly dissipated as I watched. The bird sat there all puffed out, unlike an adult bird, which would have quickly flown away. Downy feathers mixed with grown up feathers¬ - a fledgling! I said to myself.

Hop, hop, hop, went the bird, looking around in delight. I half listened to my friend talking, fully wishing at that very moment there was no such thing as cell phones because I was missing out on sharing such a special experience with Danny. But, I thought to myself, even if I hung up quickly it would likely be too late and the bird would fly off before I could even get Danny to focus on it at all. So I watched the little bird and half-listened to my caller.

Oh how that bird was bursting with wonderment as she looked all around her. She seemed so proud of her young self, for her independence, for her ability to move about. She flew-hopped again, stopped and pivoted her head back and forth. Glorious was the new day through that tiny new bird’s eyes as she took in the breeze, the moistness after a rain, and the clean, clean air.

Hop, hop, hop into the street, her chest puffed out in pride for she was independent, free and able to decide what she wanted to do. Every part of her was twitching with excitement. Oh, to be young with new eyes! Then just as quickly as she had appeared I caught the sight of a car out of the corner of my eye. It was rolling towards her.

“NO!” I yelled trying to will the car to stop. This cannot be happening, I screamed in my head. Not slowing, braking or swerving to avoid her the driver killed the bird.

The sound of crushing bones, as the car slowly ran over her, without a pause, sounded like the scene in a horror movie when a person is creeping through woods and slowly steps on and crushes fallen twigs. The fledgling’s body was flat; the only indication of what she had once been were the feathers now strewn about like a chicken been plucked.

So odd that in one minute a little life can be literally dripping of spirit, rich with it, as if surrounded by golden light and in just a snap of the finger, nothing, simply nothing but a bunch of feathers.

I looked over at Danny, who had stopped his peddling and was looking towards the bird. “I gotta get off the phone,” I told my friend and hung up abruptly. I bent down towards Danny.

“Oh honey, the little birdie was killed by that car, that’s so sad,” I told him. “But now the bird’s in heaven.” (I really didn’t know what else to say.) I studied his face, blank, his eyes blinking. “Poor birdie,” I said, searching Danny’s face to make sure he was all right. Then I put my sunglasses on and cried, right out there in the open - not a sobbing cry but a soft, sad cry for the bird, what was and could have been and for the tragedy of it. Danny looked at me a bit perplexed but accepting, I wasn’t sure he was making the connection.

That day and even now as I write this I have been trying to think of how to turn that experience into a life’s lesson, or a positive experience or a moral or something. I’m struggling with it even as I write this. I could say that things like that happen all the time, cars kill all sorts of animals, that’s life. But I don’t see anything necessarily positive about that at all. I could say that the car killed that bird but that’s really not the case, not really. It wasn’t the car but the person driving it who was too self-absorbed doing whatever they were doing to see the bird. There weren’t any warranted distractions for the person driving on that quiet suburban street.

If we look around ourselves we won’t miss a small bird right in front of us.

So then I think to myself, I can think about the fledgling herself. She was so completely and totally in the moment. She was enjoying herself in those moments to such a degree she was quite literally light as a feather. She had pride at her independence and she was free in spirit and soul. Maybe the lesson of this story is not necessarily the demise of that tiny soul but the way in which she chose to live. I can try and do that. Yes, I will remind myself of how that little, brown fledgling lived.

"Spirit" By Wendy Werdan

Brooklyn Time

By Alan Barasky
Cheryl cried at breakfast when Dad couldn’t remember how to use a fork.

And again when she told Dr. Young about it during their weekly visit.

“Forgetting how to use everyday items is to be expected in a mid-stage Alzheimer’s patient. How did he react?”

“He smashed some dishes and started screaming about finding the bus so he could go back to Brooklyn – again. All he talks about is going home to Brooklyn….”

“Where he lived with your Mom for sixty years until she passed away. That’s a powerful memory – maybe the only one he’s still sure of.” Dr. Young took Cheryl’s hand. “Cheryl, you won’t be able to care for your Dad forever. It may be time.”

Then the door to Dr. Young’s office burst open and Dad filled the doorway, wringing his hands in front of him.

“Mr. Wiseman, it’s okay”, said Dr. Young’s nurse as she gently took his elbow, trying to turn him back to the waiting room.

“No!” he shouted, eyes blazing. He seemed to notice Dr. Young for the first time. “Can you tell me where the bus to Brooklyn is?” he pleaded softly.

* * *

After his nap Cheryl found Dad pacing in the study, cradling one of the model train engines Cheryl had bought for him. Dad had always loved trains. He used to tell stories about playing on an old railroad bridge when he was a kid and insisted on using the Auto Train when he and Mom spent winters in Florida.

“Dad, how was your nap? Did you see all the new snow outside? Isn’t it beautiful? Dad?”

“Can’t stay here, can’t stay here,” he muttered, turning to Cheryl. “I have to go home. I have to go back to Brooklyn. Now.”

“Dad, you don’t live in Brooklyn anymore. You live with me. You are home.”

“No, no, NO!” Dad looked at the engine in his arms and then hurled it against the far wall of the study. Tears fell from two faces as they watched the shattered pieces of the engine spin crazily across the wooden floor.

* * *

Jeff was late because of a client dinner, so Cheryl couldn’t share her day with her husband until they were getting ready for bed. He listened in silence and then took her in his arms. “You know I love your Dad,” he said as he nuzzled her hair, “but my first concern is always you. Dr. Young may be right. It may be time.”

She was still crying when she put on her footie pajamas. But she smiled as she remembered how much Mom had loved footies and Dad’s mock outrage when he discovered that she had at least twenty of them. She could still hear Mom’s cackle whenever she wore her favorites from Arizona State with the red Sun Devils all over them. And see Dad’s eyes twinkle when he would say, “It’s the right outfit for you, woman.”

* * *

Cheryl pushed up against Jeff, sliding over under the covers until she could feel every part of her touching him. He pulled her close with a chuckle that had taken her years to understand was a sound of appreciation rather than condescension. Jeff’s touch was the quickest way to bring on the obliviousness of sleep that would finally end another gut wrenching day. But was it really time?

* * *

Cheryl woke with a start and knew she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep until she checked on Dad. Padding to his room, she saw his empty bed in the soft glow of the nightlight. That got her fully awake, but she quickly reminded herself that he had been wandering through the house at night a lot lately.

Still, her pace quickened as she checked the study and the guest bedroom, and then got even faster as she went through the dining room and kitchen. She hurried to the front windows to see if he was on the porch and then ran to the family room to look for him in the back yard.

And there he was, slowly swaying back and forth on the swing on the far side of the deck. Cheryl opened the back door and stepped out into the snow. She hurried over to him through the drifts, ignoring the wet and cold assaulting her feet through the thin material of the footies. A train whistled and she looked up to see the light from an engine piercing the grove of bare trees that separated her house from the Union Pacific line to the east.

Cheryl moved to the side of the swing. “Dad, what are you doing out here? It’s snowing and it’s so cold. Are you watching the trains?”
He looked at the trees as if seeing them for the first time. “No, I was talking to your Mom.”

“To Mom?”

“Yeah. I thought so. He looked out past the trees again. But she’s gone, isn’t she?”

Cheryl said nothing, just leaned down and laid her head on Dad’s.

He gazed at the wind-blown snow in the back yard. “What a mess,” he sighed. “I’m never going to get to Brooklyn.” He reached up and touched Cheryl’s cheek with his cold fingers. “But I can’t stay here. It’s time.”

ASTRONOMICAL

by Larry Boisen

From Alan Keller
To Kenneth Williams
Date 2.12.11, 05 52 UTC

Hi Kenny

I’ve got great news. I put the final touches on my stargazing invention. I call it “Stellaropticon." I can hone in on just one star in a galaxy and determine its elemental make-up, no great surprises there so far, mostly the expected hydrogen, ferrous oxide and very little carbon or oxygen, but a few stars show signs of some primitive life forms. It’s probably not like your garden variety asparagus, but at least I am finding some life forms, and I’m convinced that I’ll find some more advanced forms yet. This is really exciting. It’s a shame that you’re practically a galaxy away from me yourself.

Well, I’ll keep you up to date as I find out more.

Bye
Alan


From Kenneth Williams
To Alan Keller
Date 2.12.11, 18 11 UTC

Hi Alan

Congrats, awesome, man! Yeah, I wish I weren’t here in Chicago and you in Pasadena, but maybe I can arrange a trip out your way in the next few months.

There’s nothing exciting going on here unless you’re into icebergs, brrr!

I can’t wait until you make the big discovery. Big Foot on some distant planet, or maybe there’s an alien Einstein out there.

Keep me posted
Kenny


From Alan Keller
To Kenneth Williams
Date 3.08.11, 13 24 UTC

Kenny

This is incredible! It’s really happened; I’ve honed in on some galaxy with obvious advanced life forms. They are actually corresponding with me, or maybe it’s just “he,” but I don’t think so. From what I can understand so far it’s a whole society. We’re still learning to decode each other’s languages, but this is no plodding Yeti that I’m dealing with; that’s for sure. They are asking me so many questions in their probe. I really think they’re going to try to come here. How’s that for a pen pal, huh, pal? Hey, can you imagine me the official ambassador to the stars, wow! Fame and fortune await me.

Well, I have to go. This is consuming all my time. I don’t want to miss a thing. I’ll let you know whether anything startling develops.

Alan


From Kenneth Williams
To Alan Keller
Date 3.08.11, 14 22 UTC

Alan

Wow! You’re going to be in the history books. I asked at work about taking a week off in April. How does that sound? You don’t need to put me up, I’ll stay at any motel. I just want to be a part of all this.

Kenny


From Alan Keller
To Kenneth Williams
Date 3.15.11, 01 15 UTC

Oh my God, what did I get myself into? The aliens, they’re called the Fustians have just about taken over control of all my electrical power, and they’re on their way to Earth with a massive armada. We’re all going to become their slaves. I don’t know how much time I have. I hope this message #%*////

SEEK AND YE SHALL FIND

by Larry Boisen

I tried not to think of food, but my dog, Toby, continually let me know that he wasn’t getting enough to eat. I received enough money from begging yesterday to buy him some Purina moist and meaty dry food and some cheese and crackers and Cutey tangerines for myself. The tangerines were inexpensive, but they and the dog food weighed down my Safari jacket. I rationed them out one a day, but in my sleepless stupor I couldn’t remember whether or not I had eaten that day.

Some mysterious force had guided me to the library, but I wasn’t sure what it was that I was supposed to do there. It was as if this force had control of my every action, but it didn’t seem to possess any logic in its choice of a course of action for me. But, of course, what logic was there to bringing a dog into a public library? It wasn’t that public.

The librarians hesitated a moment as I entered, perhaps thinking that Toby was a seeing-eye dog. But they soon must have realized that I wasn’t blind – or was I? They told me that I wasn’t allowed to bring a dog into the library. I inexplicably ignored them and continued on towards the racks of DVDs with Toby at my side, which also made no sense, since I not only didn’t own a DVD player, but I was, in fact, a homeless sixty-four year old woman. My sole possession was Toby; my dear faithful Toby, whom I could never possibly part with.

More and more I felt a swelling up of an emotion of utter confusion. I was totally out of self-control. I was a mere marionette, the strings of which were being manipulated by some unseen, seemingly irrational force.

I resisted as one male and two female librarians lead me out of the library. What was I to do now - tie my poor Toby outside to a trash can? If I did this would I be able to re-enter the library sans canine or was I permanently a persona non grata?

I tied Toby to a bike stand, gave him some of the dog food and re-entered the library. The only resistances that I was met with were stares of disbelief. I walked over to the DVD section. What on Earth was I looking for?

“Where is God, where is God?” I screamed as I ransacked the racks of DVDs, and the librarians, this time four of them, quickly escorted me to an office where someone phoned the police while the others attempted to hush my wailing. No, I hadn’t mistaken the library for a church. I had already been to a church and also had been ejected from there. I had already been many places seeking Him.

But I wasn’t finding God anywhere, especially not in my homeless soul.

Hopping to see you Wednesday Night

By Neal S. Mehr
I haven’t been to a meeting in almost two years. It’s not that I haven’t thought about going; in fact, I’ve had a lot of time to think about a lot of things.
On February 4th of this year, I came home after an absence of 523 days. I’ve changed a little, lost some weight, about 14 pounds of which used to be my left leg.

My wife Jeanette and I went on vacation in August of 2009. We flew into Nairobi Kenya to go on a long awaited African Safari. We flew on a small plane to Meru National Park, and then went to the Paradise Lodge. We had a great time touring and seeing the sites and wildlife. I’ll write about that later, but now only one story matters.

With only a few days left on our trip we went out on the Lodges’ four wheel drive Range Rover. We drove along the Tana River and stopped for a luxury safari picnic. After lunch I wandered off towards the river bank into the high weeds. I’d like to say just like in a bad novel, “I came face to face with the creature.” To tell the truth, I don’t remember what the crocodile looked like. Either I never saw the crocodile or my mind blocked it out.

I was told later that I was flown to a hospital in Nairobi. After four days I was flown back to Chicago. I have no memory of this. I was in shock.

After sometime in Advocate Lutheran General Hospital, I was awake and alert. They told me that a Nile crocodile snapped off my left leg below the knee. I didn’t have an easy time after that. The crocodiles’ mouth is filled with a variety of diseases, salmonella, mycobacterium and other bacteria. The crocodiles also harbor viral diseases, such as the pox virus, herpes virus and hepatitis.

I spent a long time in the hospital and nursing home/rehab center. They tried to isolate the many bacteria that infected me. Crocodile bites aren’t that common in Park Ridge. The doctors used antibiotics to fight my infections. Unfortunately, I was allergic to four of the antibiotics. Bad reactions caused sepsis, kidney failure and seizure. I recovered from all those. I had a total of ten operations and the rest of my leg was taken off above the knee.

I’m doing quite well now. I’m in outpatient rehab at the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago in Northbrook. I have a prosthesis and use a walker. By the meeting in July, I’ll be using a cane.

This is the most I’ve written in two years, more will be coming.

Are you a WriMo?

by Kathy W.

National Novel Writing Month (www.nanowrimo.org) is an extravaganza that traditionally takes place in November. WriMo’s are people who participate in this, well, mad writing marathon. In 2010, over 200,000 people worldwide took part. I did it, as did several other members of our Vernon Writers Group. The goal is to write 50,000 words in the 30 days of November. (Most novels are at least 80,000 words.) If you achieve the 50K word count you get a cool certificate to print and hang on the wall. And that manuscript you produced, of course! No matter if it’s 10K or 25K or the magical 50K, it’s a major ego booster even when there are plot holes that could swallow Mac trucks.

I’ve participated in NaNoWriMo six times. It has made me a better writer. Why? It’s intense writing practice. In the beginning I primarily focused on word count, but after I knew I could write 50K, I focused on things in my writing that needed improvement. In 2010 I discovered the joys of plot! To me, that’s the most important value of this exercise. Writing better. There’s also a marvelous online community of fellow writers to commiserate with and lots of general writing information in the Forums (message boards).

Ever heard of Water for Elephants? Written during NaNoWriMo.

I’m bringing this up now because for the first time ever there’s going to be Camp NaNoWriMo this summer! They haven’t yet announced which summer month. I’ll post it either here or at the Yahoo group site when the information is available, or you can check their website.

I'll participate. But it’s always more fun with friends. If you sign up, let me know. We can be NaNo buddies.

International Day of Pease

by Carol Keene

According to sources in Pease Porridge, a small village in West Sussex, England, we're coming up on another International Day of Pease. Pease Porridge became the town's official name when in the 1740's, it became the favorite watering hole and eatery for convicts in route from London to a prison on the southern coast. Pease Porridge is made from cooked dried peas that grow in and around that village. It was a cheap and hearty meal to prepare for the traveling prisoners that could be served hot or cold, fresh or old—up to nine days old, commensurate with the children's clapping game and popular Mother Goose nursery rhyme.

This year in Pease Porridge, the Day of Pease will include: pease shooting, a pease cook-off, and music by the Village's own, Peaseable Kingdom. The ubiquitous tortures of yore have officially been eliminated from the festival. Unruly residents will no longer be required to kneel on dried pease as punishment for acts originating in the beer tent.

New this year's line up are exciting changes in the gaming rules and not surprisingly, in the ingredients list for the cook-off, according to Flarrity McHugh, this year's organizer. Pease shooting will now require a tube from which to launch fresh green pease. One's own nose is no longer considered an appropriate instrument. Soda straws, category A-7, for this year's tenderometer-graded specimens, will be provided. Neither metal nor composite instruments of nondescript or questionable components will be acceptable, including wires, generators or batteries.

On the heels of last year's first prize entry debacle, Sorley O'Flay has been banned from the festivities. In fact, she was recently seen in Pease Porridge eating a bowl of Porridge while shackled to a string of prisoners, heading down to the southern coast. Sorley was suspected, and convicted of cubing the marinated feet of her dear, departed husband, and including him in her stew. Sorley's entry was tasty, but disqualified from the baked pease category when a whole toe, nail and all, floated to the top of a bowl. This year's entries, it was decided, will be entirely vegetarian.

And finally, The Nine-Days-Old Micro-Brewery is up and running again, after two unrelated infusion-mashing incidents. Besides Sorley's husband Danny drowning in tank number one, a second incident; the mistaken addition of kaolin clay left over from Finn's Pottery Shoppe was added instead of yeast to the boiled wort. The look-alike granules that clogged the apparatus instead of dissolving and fermenting shut down the operation for longer, even, than the unfortunate marinating of Danny O'Flay. Nine-Days-Old will be the sole concession of beer this year and will debut its International Day of Pease Ale. Free pedicures will be offered at the foot of the beer tent in memory of Danny O'Flay.

Random

by Alan Barasky

As I blew my horn at the minivan cutting me off so that it could navigate from the left lane to the exit in the 20 feet that remained available to it, I noticed its bumper sticker flashing by: “S--t happens.” And to push aside the homicidal thoughts directed at the minivan’s driver, I thought instead, “Is life really that random?”

Some other guy always wins the lottery. Some other guy’s team always wins the championship (some other guy who doesn’t live in my home town of Cleveland, that is. No champions there since 1964). Some other guy even wins the NCAA pool every year. But if life were truly random, wouldn’t I get to be that other guy once in a while?

Of course, I’m happy to leave some things to that other guy. I’ve never had a bird poop on my head, punctured a tire in a pothole or gotten hit by lightning. The other guy caught all of those – poor schnook.

So why does that other guy have all the luck – good or bad? Is life really governed by the laws of probability? With apologies to my old statistics professors, that is a particularly depressing thought. Much as I like stumbling through probabilistic brain teasers, our existence has to have more of a foundation than that – doesn’t it?

Georges Duhamel, a French author, once wrote, “I have too much respect for the idea of God to make it responsible for such an absurd world.” But perhaps that absurdity is the key. Perhaps God was invented by man solely because the prospect of no higher power, no coherent plan governing the human condition was just too unbearable for our distant ancestors to contemplate. And succeeding generations, after quickly checking their options, said, “Yep, me too. I’m a believer.”

Atheists must be the bravest people on the planet because they really believe that the only ones keeping things going are me and that other guy. Me and the schnook? That would be like getting out of bed in the middle of the night when you are six years old, walking into your parents’ bedroom and discovering that they aren’t there. And you realize that not only aren’t they there that night, they have never been there. There isn’t even a bed.

Cures For Writers Block

By Marsha Gooden

I recommend you write incessantly and use one of the following to make sure you are never blocked or to get past it.

First, stop work on a project and start capturing scenarios and idea

Or, research cultures, regions, era sciences, etc. for material

Then, look at various word books to find new or interesting ones and list them.

Also, work on an idea book of writing projects.

Finally, I switch between projects. I keep my main projects top of mind, but sort my project file by detail to see which I have ideas for but haven't worked on in 14-30 days.

One Afternoon In Memphis

By Jeff Segal

Lindy perched on the edge of the motel mattress, her face barely a foot from the weather alert flashing across the TV screen. “What county are we in?”

“Pretty sure it’s Shelby,” said Todd. “Did they say Shelby?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, that would explain the sirens.”

On cue, the distant wail resumed, ebbing and surging as the civil defense horn spun its cautious circle. Lindy whimpered a four-letter word. Todd turned to me, standing in the doorway of their room, and asked me if I was ready for another drink. I said yes.

We were staying at the Graceland Days Inn in Memphis, but we weren’t there for Elvis. We were in town for the three-day Beale Street Music Festival, and day three wasn’t looking too good. Considering the devastation wrought by tornadoes just a few days before, an outright cancellation wouldn’t come as much surprise.

But we weren’t about to spend the last day of our vacation cowering in a motel room.

Drinks in hand, my wife and I made for the deck of the guitar-shaped pool. We wiped down the lounge chairs and lowered the backs so we could gaze at the sky—a seething upturned cauldron of olive green and charcoal grey. They weren’t the kind of clouds where you say, oh look, a rabbit! a kangaroo! More like, oh look, a stampede of gorgons! Here and there sunlight would singe the edge of a cloud, as if the entire churning mass might catch fire and crash to earth like a fleet of doomed zeppelins.

We sat quietly, breathing the wispy, metal-scented air, listening to the Elvis songs on the poolside speakers dueling with the tornado siren. “Love Me Tender.” “Heartbeak Hotel.” “Return to Sender.” When “Burning Love” came on we both laughed—the first Valentine I ever sent her depicted two Far Side scientists examining a flaming, heart-shaped meteor: “No doubt about it, it’s a hunka hunka burnin’ love.”

Secretly, I was hoping to see one of those sinister clouds sharpen into a funnel. Not that I wished destruction on anyone, least of all myself. But ... I don’t know. Seems like you spend half your life scared of abstract what-ifs—is your job safe? will your kid make new friends? does insurance cover that?—but how many times in life do you experience genuine terror? I craved that moment of sky-cleaving panic, daring myself to watch wide-eyed until the very last second before running for cover. I wanted the exhilaration of being scared out of my freakin’ mind.

But soon the siren stopped and the sky lightened into a flat, boring pearl grey. Todd and Lindy came out to the pool and said if we left now we might still catch Gregg Allman. So we piled into the van and took the near-deserted highway into town. The park was a sea of mud and Gregg Allman’s set was lame.

Some Minor Adjustments

By Larry Boisen

Trudy Schlaumeier made some final adjustments to the console of her gadget, which she called her, “ideal man maker.” It was attached to a well-padded recliner that had hidden within it all sorts of electronic connections. She had only to convince her potential victim, some young hunk, to sit in the recliner, let the drugged drink he had imbibed take effect, connect all the electrodes to his chest and forehead and then turn the gizmo on. She was a brilliant scientist; although others would deem her a diabolical one.

She had worked so hard creating this contraption and had, in fact, tried it out on a few men already. The fact that the device had not exhibited the correct effect was not due to any failings in her scientific planning but rather to her wrong choice of men.

Her plan was relatively simple: since she was a reasonably attractive woman, she wouldn’t have too difficult a time finding some young hunk to lure to her lair. She would ply him with alcoholic drinks, say and do a few suggestive things, get him to sit in the “electric chair”, wait for the drug to take effect and then whammo! – she would adjust all the dials to alter his state permanently to become a mindless slave that would satisfy her every whim.

Her few past attempts resulted in men who became too docile, too lazy. She wanted a man full of vigor, but one whose one constant goal was to serve her like the queen that she was meant to be. Oh, sure there were plenty of men who would want plenty of hanky-panky, but after they were sated they would just dump her. But this time it would work perfectly. She had found herself a hunk all right, but he was a brainless Lil’ Abner of a man. Once she had manipulated his nervous system and brain waves he would be all hers to cater to her every beck and call.

Herman was his name, and he was due to arrive any minute. She was sure that this time she wouldn’t have to dispose of a body. She didn’t want any guy with brains; she had enough brains for any couple.

The door bell rang. Trudy opened the door, and there stood all six foot four of this simpleton named Herman. He was dressed like the bumpkin that he was wearing a brown and yellow striped shirt. He held a bouquet of flowers in his trembling hands.

“Please come in, Herman. Let us not waste a precious moment. I have some delicious new variety of wine for us to celebrate with. Please be seated.” And she indicated her lethal weapon.

“Oh, thank you,” Herman said as he bowed clumsily and then sat down.

Trudy scurried off and fetched the glasses of wine, one for herself and the other, laced with a sedative, for Herman. Within minutes Herman was in la-la-land and Trudy attached the electrodes to his chest and forehead. She rubbed her hands together and smiled with sinister glee as she started to manipulate the dials. This went on for several minutes.

“Any minute now,” she snickered to herself. Suddenly, Herman popped open his eyes,

looked at her and around the room and then smiled graciously at her.


“I feel simply marvelous,” he said with a somewhat British accent.


Trudy was taken aback a bit at first, but he seemed so happy that she assumed that this was just an unusual side effect. He rose quickly, bowed gracefully, grabbed her hand and kissed it.

“What a charming princess you are, my dear,” he said, and he took her into his arms and waltzed her around the room.


“What happened to the shy young man who was at my door a few minutes ago?” she panted with delighted exhaustion.


“Why, he has been changed into your most ardent lover and slave, madam. Please sit

down so I may attend to your every need and desire.”


She sat down a bit perplexed. He stroked her hair and face. She smiled as she contemplated her plan working so effectively. He continued to stroke her temples, and then suddenly he pressed her temples hard and she passed out. He attached the electrodes to her and walked over to the console.

“Now, let me make a few adjustments here and soon I will have my very own Stepford woman. Ha! Who wants a brilliant woman? No, I have a much better use for you, my dear ditz.

Writing Rich, Money Poor

"I have to concede that if you want to get rich, in monetary sense, you should probably do something besides write. But for me, it's enough that writing makes me rich in other ways. I was poor when I wasn't writing, when I didn't trust the value of taking time to put my heart and mind on paper, when I thought that because I wasn't already published, my desire to write was dilettantish. It wasn't until I started taking writing classes that I began to from out of the poverty of not trusting myself as a writer. In those early classes, I recognized that I felt better on days I wrote than days I didn't write." Sheila Bender

At The Pool

By Carol Keene

Betty flipped through an album of how the view had looked one year ago; shots of the pool, looking down from her third floor balcony to the decking below. How things had changed.

Photo #1. SpongeBoy TanPants: a pre-pubescent chunk-of-a-child whose blubber lounged just within the hemlines of a plain blue beach towel. He created an entertaining illusion, akin to the licensed graphic of a cartoon character. His right-arm flexed so his hand arced between a bag of something salty/crunchy, to his open mouth. His left arm cradled a Big Gulp with a Tygon-tubing straw. Brown liquid ebbed and flowed with every sip.

Photo #2. Skirted Myrtle: middle-aged caregiver, snack provider to SpongeBoy TanPants, pulled a wheeled crate to the deck chair close to the kid. She opened the lid, tore open a new bag, replaced his empty one with something chewy/sweet this time. She seemed to know the shortest way to the dear boy's heart—attack.

Photo #3. Speedo Guido: sleek as a seal, wriggled himself like a needle, quilting an azure block with calculated movements, perfectly spaced, perfectly paced, sparse at the surface, gliding through the batting, turning—repeating.

Photo #4. Ike and Mike: candy-colored trunks on wiener-shaped siblings, one left handed, one right, with an invisible tether between their useless sides, acted as a unit in all they did. Like conjoined twins, severed early enough, through flesh and organs that didn't much matter. They shook out a double wide towel of fruity stripes, reclined themselves in unison, index fingers connecting across the lime stripe.

Photo #5. Frail Dale: a hunching shrimp in the shell, leaned into his walker, tennis ball feet skimming the decking as he eeked his way through shade the temperature of his own body, toward the warmth of...

Photo #6. Sun-drenched Sue: scanty at best, mostly naked, apart from the thong and two threads tied in a bow across her back. She was slippery in her valleys and her mounds, attracting stares like metal filings on a Wooly Willy magnetic toy.

Photo #7. Frail Dale: scooted behind his walker faster than his chicken bone legs were able, toward the warmth of his oasis in the desert—Sun-drenched Sue. His wheels smacked the rim of the swimming pool, and lunged his shrimpish hunch into the fluid blue pool—on top of Speedo Guido.

Photo #8. Guido: snapped in the neck and spine by two struts of Dale's walker.

Photo #9. Paramedic Paul: failed every attempt at pumping chlorinated pool water from Frail Dale's bony chest.

Photo #10. Paramedic Pete: pronounces Guido, bent in directions unbecoming a spine.

Photo #11. Sun-drenched Sue: maven of music, iPod booming through ear buds plugged-in to two of her many inviting openings, was oblivious to the disturbance she had caused; long past the removal of the bodies, and Skirted Myrtle's hasty exit with Sponge Boy, Mike and Ike.

Photo #12. Sun-burned Sue: blistered carcass baked to a crisp was carried out by the same shift of paramedics, one of whom found her suicide note: Pills.

Photo #13. Insurance adjuster.

Photo #14. Jack hammer.

Photo #15. Bulldozer.

Photo #16. Lawnmower cutting the grass where the pool once was.

Excuses, Excuses

Do you love to write but think that you "just don't have time" or "don't know where to start" or "are stuck where you are with the story.” So often I hear writers make excuses for not writing. It's a great way to get away with not doing it when frankly you should JUST DO IT!

That exact sentiment is written about in a frank and funny non fictional guide titled, Bird By Bird, by Anne Lamott. The book is inspiring, insightful and interesting.

You can compare the act of writing like getting up for a job you have to go to every day. You work nine to five and set your alarm at 6:00 a.m. so you can be at work at 9:00 a.m. Each task you do when you wake up is one task closer to getting to work. You shower, brush your teeth, get dressed, eat breakfast, grab your car keys, etc., and head out the door.

Think of writing in the same way. Setting your alarm could be equal to making a time on your calendar to write. Showering could be pulling your hair back in a ponytail or getting into something comfortable. Instead of brushing your teeth you grab a glass of something warm or cold to drink. Then instead of grabbing you car keys grab that door knob and go into your office and turn on the computer and DRIVE to work and WRITE.

A Writer's Fingers Dance

The writer’s fingers dance the keyboard for the sounds of the tap, tap, tap rhythm their fingers make as a story is born.

Hour after hour, days and weeks stretch out as the writer raises their story. Word after word fills the pages, then changed, erased and re-written yet again.

Then as the writer holds her breath it is sent off into the world, hoping against hope someone will like what she has made.