A MOMENT IN THE HISTORY OF WRITING
LITTLE-KNOWN FACTS ABOUT . . .
FINALLY . . . A Sample of Excellence
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Volume
4,
Issue 1
January
2006
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R e a d i n g W r i t e r
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Welcome to The VERB! For me, January came around with many things left undone, and I couldn't rid myself of the notion that before I began anything new, I really ought to go back and finish the old. So I launched into some long overdue house cleaning and redecorating, including my office. (Feels so good to throw out stuff!) When that was done, I sat down at the computer and eyeballed the website. Before I knew it, I was in Micrographx playing around with different designs and fonts and navigation buttons and deleting and adding and generally cleaning up the website from top to bottom. Aside from a new look, we now host the ReadingWriters BOOKSHELF, where authors can rent space on our website to promote their books. We've also created the CONTEST CAFE, an area that lists other contests on the web in addition to our quarterly ones. (Speaking of contests, our First Chapter competition ends tomorrow night! Boy, those deadlines creep up on you, don't they?) Drop by the website and take a look around. I'm still eyeballing a few more things, but I think this is enough change for one month. It's onward and upward from here! ~~~ FOR
YOUR RESEARCH - The Short Story As with novels, the best way to grasp the nuances of short stories is to read them. Several magazines such as The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly and The Paris Review (to name a few) publish short fiction. For mysteries, look for Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine and Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Although these are the longest-running short story mystery magazines in the world, they're still sometimes difficult to find. If your local bookstore doesn't carry them, request a change of policy. Or you can always subscribe at the websites. For romances, pick up a copy of True Love or True Romance. Prefer a bit of sci-fi/fantasy? Explore Asimov's, Analog Science Fiction and Fact and DargonZine Oodles of anthology books are out there as well, available online or through bookstores and your local library. One of my favorite author anthologies is Stephen King's Nightmares & Dreamscapes. In June, TNT will premiere a series of eight one-hour episodes adapted from these short stories. See what can happen? Finally, your temporary Freedom from Toil is here. Dress a pirate. Punch a hunchback. Join in on an interactive short story. Now, without further ado ... let the action begin!
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| STEPHEN D. ROGERS
I consider writing as two different tasks—crafting words and then placing them—and my work area reflects that in a somewhat unusual fashion. Thinking about my space, I realized I could divide it in half: above desk level and below desk level. Writing aids appear above desk level. Within easy reach I keep two rhyming dictionaries, three thesauruses, and six dictionaries. Stretching, I can reach two desk encyclopedias, two books of quotations, and the Bible. For thoughts unrelated to the work at hand, I have a pile of scrap paper and a jar of pens. Submission aids appear below desk level. To my right are large envelopes, #10 envelopes, stamps, and labels. In front of me are two boxes where I hold submissions (copies of cover letters and emails) as well as the paper-clipped response to same. To my left is a filing cabinet containing contracts and expense receipts. All of the above-mentioned can be touched without leaving my chair. The only excuse I have to remove myself from the hot seat is to file finished manuscripts in the bank of filing cabinets at the other side of the room and I don't do that until my writing shift is completed. What else do I like to have nearby? Bottles of water and a crunchy snack. Rice cakes work well because they don't mess up my fingers or my waist. Coffee is always a good idea. Black, no sugar. There's a map of the area while my novel is taking place up on the wall behind the monitor but I don't pay too much attention to it on a conscious level. I do, however, seem to need both a clock and a calendar. Go figure.
Stephen
writes fantasy, horror, literary, mystery, essays, romance and
science fiction. Over 300 of his stories and poems have been
published, earning among other honors two "Best of Soft
SF," four Derringer nominations, a Bram Stoker nomination,
a Pushcart nomination, honorable mention in "The Year's
Best Fantasy and Horror" and "The Best American
Mystery Stories," and numerous Readers' Choice awards. He
lives with his wife and daughter in Massachusetts. Visit
his website. |
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© 2006 Elizabeth Guy |
SAY WHAT? Commonly Misused Words
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Climactic means relating
to a climax; the point of greatest intensity. Climatic means relating
to climate; weather conditions. |
A MOMENT IN THE HISTORY OF WRITING
In
1928, a young man named Gregorio Fuentes worked as a fish merchant in
Cuba, trading between Havana and Florida. One day, as he stood on his
rented boat off the Florida Keys, a tropical storm swept in very quickly
and sent everyone running for cover. A group of strangers, out searching for onions and rum, asked to take
refuge inside his boat. Of course, he said.
One of the strangers, an American writer, was so impressed by Fuentes’ hospitality and immaculate care of the boat, he never forgot him. Years later, he hired “Grigorine” as captain and cook of his 38-foot custom-made fishing yacht, the Pilar. A warm friendship began. The American and the Cuban were companions on the sea, from morning till night, eating fine foods, enjoying high adventures and witnessing strange things—such as the old timer who refused their help with fighting a monster marlin in the Florida Straits. Later on, when they learned the old timer had died in the struggle, the writer said that sad fact had sparked an idea. As Fuentes polished the decks, and carried on his other onboard duties, he had no idea the writer watched him, studied him, worked to describe him on paper. In the short story that emerged, the lead character Santiago was a fisherman, thin and gaunt with deep wrinkles in the back of his neck. Just like Fuentes. His eyes were the same color as the sea and were cheerful and undefeated. Just like Fuentes’.
Grigorine
died in 2002 at the age of 104. Throughout his long life, however, he
never found the time to read about himself in Hemingway’s novella, The
Old Man and The Sea.
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Stymied
by that opening
line? Let it go. Chances are, no matter what you write you’ll
change it by the second draft. LITTLE-KNOWN FACTS ABOUT . . .
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O. HENRY Born: September
11, 1862
"There are stories in everything. I've got some of my best yarns from park benches, lampposts and newspaper stands."
~ O. Henry was born William Sydney Porter in Greensboro, North Carolina. ~ His father, Algernon Sidney Porter, was a physician. When William was three, his mother died, and he was raised by his grandmother and aunt. ~ William was an avid reader, but at the age of fifteen he left school. Thirteen years in Austin, Texas, he worked as a pharmacist and draftsman. ~ He continued to Houston, where he married Athol Estes Roach. Their union produced one daughter and one son. ~ In 1894 Porter started a humorous weekly The Rolling Stone. He also started drinking heavily. When the weekly failed, he joined the Houston Post as a reporter and columnist. ~ Later that year, cash came up missing from the First National Bank in Austin, where Porter had worked as a bank teller. When called back to Austin to stand trial, Porter fled to Honduras for three years. ~ After hearing news that his wife was dying, he reluctantly returned to Austin and turned himself in. He was convicted of embezzling, although there has been much debate over his actual guilt. In 1898 Porter entered a penitentiary at Columbus, Ohio. ~ While in prison, Porter started to write short stories to earn money to support his daughter Margaret. The stories of adventure in the U.S. Southwest and in Central America became an immediate success. ~ After doing three years of the five-year sentence, Porter emerged from prison in 1901 and changed his name to O. Henry. According to some sources, he acquired the pseudonym from a warden called Orrin Henry. ~ O. Henry moved to New York City in 1902 and almost became a recluse. From December 1903 to January 1906 he wrote a story a week for the New York World, also publishing in other magazines. ~ His first collection, CABBAGES AND KINGS, appeared in 1904. The second, THE FOUR MILLION, was published two years later and included his well-known stories "The Gift of the Magi" and "The Furnished Room." ~ His last years were shadowed by alcoholism, ill health, and financial problems. He was a fast writer, but drinking on average two quarts of whiskey daily didn't help the quality of his work. ~ O. Henry died of cirrhosis of the liver at the age of 48 in New York. He was buried in Asheville, North Carolina. ~ In 1918 the O. Henry Memorial Awards were established. Given annually, they honor the best short stories.
Read
the stories by O. Henry! |
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Was
is a passive, lazy bum that hangs around your writings, eating all the
snacks and drinking all the beer. It should be avoided as much as
possible. Several agents hate the word so much, they will reject a
manuscript outright if they see it overused in the first chapter.
Seek out and
destroy every weak was you find, and replace it with a strong,
active verb.
EXAMPLE: CLEANED
UP:
EXAMPLE: CLEANED
UP:
EXAMPLE: CLEANED
UP:
EXAMPLE: CLEANED
UP:
Uncertain
of a piece of your writing? |
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Visitors
are unique individuals, and prefer to navigate in different ways. Give
them choices. |
Your writing is ... |
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PREVIOUS SURVEY
Fruitful - 14%
"Fruitful. I sold my first story in '05. I'm happy!" - Sylvia Arnold "Educational. I learned so much this year, and a lot about rejection. But I know I can write and I will see my name in print." - Sally Hightower "Depressing. Nothing much going on in my head, and not much coming out my fingers." - Andy Strickland |
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Subject:
CHALKBOARD submission
MR.
LUCKLESS If I planned on hanging around long enough, I’d get myself hooked on some potent sleeping pills and do away with all the tossing and turning and clock-watching. But I didn’t have that kind of time.
The alarm went off at 6:45 AM. I reached for it without opening my eyes and knocked a cup to the floor. Oh yeah. I’d put it there last night after I’d killed the tea. I did that a lot lately. Not knock over cups, but kill tea. Matter of fact, I had developed a nightly routine without even trying. Go to bed around 11:00. A few hours of tossing and turning, watching the clock bounce from 1:00 AM to 2:00 AM and finally getting up at 3:00 AM to brew a cup of tea. I know, I know. I could be more efficient. If I planned on hanging around long enough, I’d get myself hooked on some potent sleeping pills and do away with all the tossing and turning and clock-watching. But I didn’t have that kind of time. Full bladder kicked me out of bed. Standing over the toilet, staring at the colorful cross-stitch garden Grace had sewn and framed the same year we got married (said so right there in the lower left corner: “G.S. 1986”), I heard voices from the police scanner and decided to stay up. I hurried down the hall to my home office, and listened. A traffic accident. Nothing serious. Figured. Nothing good ever happened to me. My stomach growled. I turned on the computer then shuffled to the kitchen. Grabbed a slice of cold pizza and a cup of hot black coffee. I shuffled back to the office and plopped into my comfy ergonomic desk chair. The one Grace and my daughter Natalie bought me for my birthday. Dear, dear Natalie. “Code Ten,” announced the female voice on the police scanner. “Magnolia and Main. Farmers & Merchants Bank.” You got no idea how long I’d waited to hear that. How many hours I'd been hoping and praying for this very chance. And there it was. Bigger than life. Code Ten. Armed robbery. The operative word being armed. It was my Code Ten. Didn’t take me long to get my ass dressed and down to Magnolia and Main.
© 2006 Cary Nielsen |
Here's a chance to show off your
writing! |
How Many Words Can A Word-Writer Write?
Word count to a writer is the same as gravity pull to a child: a necessary evil. Read the guidelines of almost any publisher, and you’ll find they require some sort of limit to what can be submitted. This, in part, is due to the fact that everything, no matter how brilliant, must eventually come to an end. It also serves as a cunning device to help writers stay on course instead of veering off willy nilly onto meaningless side roads. Even then, we are often times amazed that another pair of eyes can so easily pluck a considerable amount of fluff from what we consider our tightest work. Can you? Read the excerpts below to see how many words you can remove and still retain the meaning.
1. I talked and talked all day until my lips turned blue, and told her that nothing would change the old man’s mindset or perspective, but she ignored me all day and kept on talking and talking about it, so assured that she could convince the old man to finally see the light and fork over the keys to that jewel he had in the garage gathering dust and rust. 2. He spread out his lips to everyone and showed his pearly whites. When we went somewhere, a movie, a restaurant, a store, anywhere, every woman in the place turned to watch him. And what was worse was that they didn’t care if I saw them do it either. It was almost as if they had been hypnotized by some unseen genie or some magician and they dropped everything because they had to, because they couldn’t fight the force of his extreme magnetism. 3. I absolutely hated to go to church. Yet while languishing in my 14th year of life, I learned that the pious minister of the local Methodist church, of which we were irregular members, had suddenly reached the end of his long life. A new minister soon arrived, and quickly became the talk of the town. My silly cousins, who still attended the Methodist church, simply could not refrain from speaking about and fawning over this young, handsome man who now stood at the pulpit and preached the gospel. Therefore, after much thought and study, I decided to investigate. 4. Now, it’s June down in the state of Georgia. Winter fires are a long way off in the distance. So I figure the proud daddy’s getting himself and things ready for a bonfire/cookout to celebrate the good news. Everybody in town knows he and Prissy have been trying to have themselves a baby since SIDS took their firstborn about thirteen months ago. Rumor has it, Prissy’s due to have it around the holidays, right on Christmas. 5. "Lovely evening, don’t you think?" I said as I stepped out on the porch, slipping my black gloves onto my hands. I so desperately wanted my pipe, to light the tobacco and inhale the rich smoke after a good hearty meal, but I had ended my affair with that offensive odorous herb at the request of my love. Still I kept a pouch of it hidden in my coat pocket as a source of comfort. Somehow holding the knowledge that it resided there unexplainably dissolved my cravings for it. “The rain has stopped and the moon has taken possession of a large slice of the evening sky. I believe the heavens approve our task.”
1. I talked and talked, told her nothing would change the old man’s mind, but she ignored me, so assured she could convince him to fork over the keys to that jewel in the garage. 2. He smiled at everyone. Wherever we went, women turned to watch him. Worse, they didn’t care that I saw. It was almost as if they'd been hypnotized, dropping everything because they had to, because they couldn’t fight his magnetism. 3. I hated to go to church. Yet in my fourteenth year, I learned the minister of the local Methodist church, of which we were irregular members, had died. A new minister soon arrived, and quickly became the talk of the town. My silly cousins, who still attended the church, simply could not refrain from fawning over the handsome man at the pulpit. I decided to investigate. 4. Now, it’s June in Georgia. Winter fires are a long way off. I figure the proud daddy’s getting ready for a bonfire/cookout to celebrate the good news. Everybody in town knows he and Prissy have been trying to have a baby since SIDS took their firstborn last year. Rumor has it, Prissy’s due on Christmas. 5. "Lovely evening, don’t you think?" I stepped out on the porch, slipping on my gloves. I so wanted my pipe, but had ended my affair with tobacco at the request of my love. Still I kept the pouch hidden in my coat as a source of comfort. Somehow my knowing it resided there dissolved my cravings for it. “The rain has stopped and the moon has taken possession of the sky. I believe the heavens approve our task.”
© 2006 Elizabeth Guy |
FINALLY . . . A Sample of Excellence
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Here and there a cottonwood soon glittered among them, quivering in the low current of air that, even on breathless days when the dust hung like smoke above the wagon road, trembled along the face of the water. It was on such an island, in the third summer of its yellow green, that we built our watch fire; not in the thicket of dancing willow wands, but on the level terrace of fine sand which had been added that spring; a little new bit of world, beautifully ridged with ripple marks, and strewn with the tiny skeletons of turtles and fish, all as white and dry as if they had been expertly cured.... This was our last watch fire of the year, and there were reasons why I should remember it better than any of the others. Next week the other boys were to file back to their old places in the Sandtown High School, but I was to go up to the Divide to teach my first country school in the Norwegian district. I was already homesick at the thought of quitting the boys with whom I had always played; of leaving the river, and going up into a windy plain that was all windmills and cornfields and big pastures; where there was nothing willful or unmanageable in the landscape, no new islands, and no chance of unfamiliar birds—such as often followed the watercourses. Other boys came and went and used the river for fishing or skating, but we six were sworn to the spirit of the stream, and we were friends mainly because of the river.
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WILLA CATHER
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© 2006 ReadingWriters. All rights reserved. This ezine is a labor of love, and may not be reproduced without permission. All correspondence should be sent to Elizabeth Guy. |