tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74598077522524013972024-03-08T15:42:43.208-08:00NORTH COUNTY WRITERS BLOCWriters Bloc meets once a week in Carlsbad, San Diego, California. Our writers are dedicated to excellence. Our critique sessions are never personal and always helpful. We have authors who have published the traditional way, along with playrights, one of whom attended Lee Strasberg's school and has acted in Hollywood movies, and authors who are indie published or are looking for agents. We welcome all those wishing to grow, published or not. Here on this blog we kick back and try pieces.RW Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03724004576839141258noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7459807752252401397.post-17636440964617139312011-07-17T16:02:00.000-07:002011-07-17T16:02:43.683-07:00No. Co. Writers BlocMy first attendance at the North County Writers Bloc meeting Friday, July 15, 2011, was a delightful experience. There are many fine members within this group, with plenty of writing talent. I look forward to their next gathering, and I thank Bob Richard for alerting me about the Writers Bloc. Joy Taylor JaegerJoy Taylor Jaegerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16672209498671010727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7459807752252401397.post-33285323755749641922011-06-09T14:27:00.000-07:002011-06-09T14:27:59.140-07:00COMMA CRAZYCOMMA CRAZY<br />
<br />
<br />
I decided to write about commas since a fellow writer asked me to look at her commas or lack thereof and because I’m considered a comma expert. Ha. Ha.<br />
<br />
Also, in a writing contest, I got dinged for this:<br />
<br />
I wrote, “Got something Colonel from Zachari’s men.”<br />
<br />
They corrected, “Got something, Colonel, from Zachari’s men.”<br />
<br />
“What?” I remembered distinctly that commas were optional in short sentences and when the meaning was obvious, so I checked it out. <br />
<br />
I wrote the Chicago Manual of Style on-line. The Staff wrote back to agree with me, but said that my sentence was gibberish without the commas. Oops. I’m not going to argue.<br />
<br />
The rest of the rules are summarized from, THE COPYEDITOR’S HANDBOOK, 2nd edition, by Einsohn:<br />
<br />
1. (Compound sentence) Separate independent clauses by comma unless they are short and unambiguous.<br />
<br />
2. (Compound predicate) Use a comma between subject and second verb if needed for emphasis or clarity.<br />
<br />
3. (Dependant clause preceding an independent clause) Place a comma after the dependent clause.<br />
<br />
4. (Dependant clause following an independent clause) No comma after the i.c. if the i.c. is restrictive. [A restrictive clause is essential to the meaning of the sentence.]<br />
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5. Set off an introductory participle phrase with a comma.<br />
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6. Set off a sentence and transitional adverb with a comma. (Unfortunately, …//The sched, however, …)<br />
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7. Set off an interrupter with a pair of commas.<br />
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8. Use commas to separate the items in a list or series (3 or more). Sometimes house rules differ.<br />
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9. Use commas to separate coordinate adjectives and no commas if the adjectives aren’t coordinate. [Coordinate adjectives equally and independently modify the noun.] This is lax in practice.<br />
<br />
10. Separate interdependent clauses unless the clauses are very short.<br />
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11. Separate antithetical elements with a comma. That’s my book, not yours, on the table.<br />
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12. In direct address, set off the addressee. See example from my novel at top of page.<br />
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13. Use a comma to separate the quotation from the speaker’s tag.<br />
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14. In running text, use a comma to separate the street address from the city, and the city from the state.<br />
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15. Use a comma to separate the date from the year.<br />
<br />
16. Do not use a comma to join independent clauses.<br />
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17. Do not insert a comma between a subject and the second member of a compound predicate. [X This new method will simplify billing, and save us time. Drop the comma.]<br />
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18. Do not use commas to set off a restrictive appositive. The movie, Casablanca, is out. Drop commas.<br />
<br />
19. Do not use commas before an indirect quotation. Management asked [no comma] whether sales were up.<br />
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20. Do not use a comma after a that that precedes a quotation. [Oh, I love this one and the next.]<br />
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21. Do not use a comma before a quotation that is the direct object of a verb. The sign said “No Fishing.”<br />
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22. Do not allow a comma to interrupt a so . . . that construction.<br />
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23. Do not place a comma before an opening parenthesis that introduces a comment. X Many dislike double pronouns, (he or she) and so we do not use them. Many dislike double pronouns (he or she), and so we do not use them.—A comma may, however, precede a set of parentheses that encloses a numeral or letter in an in-text list.<br />
<br />
24. Sometimes an author will insert a pair of commas to provide a slight degree of de-emphasis. Example: The older conventions for using commas, at times, can produce an unpleasant choppiness (and applies well when using the same accenting technique in compound sentences. In this case, it’s better to drop from four to two commas because of a stutter step cadence and visually clarity.<br />
<br />
25. Prevent a misreading of your text by applying commas.<br />
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26. Use your judgment with strange sentences.<br />
<br />
<br />
All this is as clear as pancake batter, right?<br />
<br />
By RW RichardRW Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03724004576839141258noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7459807752252401397.post-45009430708501589672011-06-05T11:25:00.000-07:002011-06-05T11:25:32.557-07:00I can't get you out of my headI was at an estate sale and bought some sheet music for a quarter. It hit me. I remembered NPR's 600 word short story contests (which are ongoing) and how every song has a story of some kind.<br />
<br />
So I issue a challenge. Look up the lyrics to some song by googling, any era, read the lyrics, get inspired and tell a short story of 600 hundred words or less. Then we read them at our pleasure on friday. Then we start collecting them. I'll use my publishing company to publish them when we have collected enough of them at no charge, we'll share the profits, going kindle at first to test the waters. This shouldn't detract from our regular writing because it probably takes a couple hours, initially.<br />
<br />
Let me give you an example: <em>Wake Up Little Suzie.</em><br />
<br />
A boy and girl can't find a way of see each other because they're parents don't want them together, so they secretly meet at the movies and it becomes a disaster....Dialogue, setting: the why, where, who, how, when can all be answered....even the cute poodle skirt she wore.<br />
<br />
If you like the idea we could expand it to 5 double spaced pages at the most (perfect for a friday).RW Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03724004576839141258noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7459807752252401397.post-8658051546927856762011-05-16T14:51:00.000-07:002011-05-16T15:52:43.908-07:00Ode to SuddenlySUDDENLY, I CRITIQUED<br />
<br />
<br />
By RW Richard<br />
<br />
On page 136 of the paperback, “Thanks, But This Isn’t For Us, A (Sort of) Compassionate Guide to Why Your Writing Is Being Rejected,” the author, Jessica Page Morrel writes, “I discover suddenly in most manuscripts I read, and it’s never necessary. Things that happen unexpectedly don’t need to be explained as being sudden; the reader will understand this phenomenon. Suddenly a loud sound shattered the silence . . . Or “Look” Alan shouted suddenly . . .”<br />
<br />
Now wait, one self-serving minute. I know, suddenly, you don’t want to read on. You wonder about my sanity or worse yet about my authorlyness (yep, made that word up). At this point I’d like to recommend picking up a copy of New York Times Bestselling Author, Barbara Delinsky’s, romance titled, Suddenly. Sorry, I have not read the whole thing (as yet). Two suddenlys lurk in chapter one. But, isn’t it, as a title, good enough to make my point? Do we need to rip from the rich English language this poor snibbling word? Might we get rid of tragically, randomly, beautiful? How about, It was a dark and stormy night? Hell, throw-em all out, but beware of dead prose promising a good sleep for the reader. And what does a reader want? Generally, they don’t put down a novel over our affectations. Most readers feel the whole, we analyze the parts.<br />
<br />
Might there be times when using suddenly is called for? Are there times when a writer uses the word to describe the excitement of the situation? And during those times, if a writer wanted to build excitement, is there an any more concise way of enriching the sentence, giving it power, giving it meaning? Why does nearly every published author use suddenly (sparingly) during their masterpieces (almost as a dare to the unwashed)?<br />
<br />
Let’s try to think up kinder examples. Let’s say you have a novel with twists and turns, a page turner. Everything is normal. The hero is solving a crime, yep time after time he’s surprised, but always manages to Karate-chop or shoot his way out. Why, because he anticipates. He’s always weary. That’s why when his nine-year-old son suddenly drives a knife into his chest while they munched together watching the Super Bowl, you shriek.<br />
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By the way, I don’t use suddenly in my novels, but I’ve always wanted to be good enough. Someday when I ‘m a world famous author, I’ll sneak one in, once in a while.<br />
<br />
Maybe I’ll start the first words on the first page of chapter one of my masterpiece with, “Suddenly, it was a dark and stormy night,” and then spend the rest of the novel trying to justify the beginning.<br />
<br />
In the Dimwit’s Dictionary, find “suddenly and without warning A wretched redundancy. . . . impetuously; impulsively; spontaneously; suddenly; unexpectedly; without warning.” Consider this. These words are not exactly interchangeable. What shade of meaning differentiates them?<br />
<br />
Is everything simply black ink on white pages or might you see color?RW Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03724004576839141258noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7459807752252401397.post-42962117708401623582010-12-22T23:04:00.000-08:002010-12-22T23:19:18.028-08:00Orin's blogerel<span style="color: red;">Orin Parker December, 2010</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;">Seasons Greetings, Writing strugglers</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">The Holiday strains us word-jugglers</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">We must keep your muse engaged, our writing clear</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">So our novels, poems and essays in print will appear . . . next year.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;">Happy New Year, WRITERS’ BLOC </span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Maybe it’s time we all took stock</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">We write but shouldn’t we finally admit</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">That what we write we must submit?</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">The agents are there, waiting to attack</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">To tell us what our word-gems lack.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">What we thought we had completed</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">They want whole precious blocks deleted.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;">Looking back, what have we published?</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Doug and Carlyn’s books are printed</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">But now they’ve left us, sprinted</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">North to Oregon’s nature-loving call. </span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Ann, your creativeness still palpitates </span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Your weekly chapters fascinate</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">We glory in your golden phrasing</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">And find your characters amazing</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Barbara, your life and how you bare it </span><br />
<span style="color: red;">We’re all pleased you let us share it </span><br />
<span style="color: red;">You find life’s deepest meanings </span><br />
<span style="color: red;">As you offer up your gleanings.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Bob, your many plots are dazzling</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Your use of words is raz-ma-tazzling</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">You surprise us, push us near the cliff </span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Of propriety, And always provide of wolves a whiff.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Brix, you write and we expect a lot</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">From your exciting Mermaid plot</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Sometimes, though, we’re no help </span><br />
<span style="color: red;">We need goggles undersea in all that kelp.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Carol, novelist par excellence</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">We stand in awe of yor tal-ance</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Thanks to you, our dear professor</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">We struggle on, more or lesser.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Claudia, your entering in our group discussion</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Sobers us. You quieten our loud percussion.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">You educate and inspire us in your reading </span><br />
<span style="color: red;">We know your published story will be leading.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Dave, your amazing tales and travels</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">We marvel as your complex plot unravels</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">But you always bring a story fantastic</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">To twist our minds and leave us spastic.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Eileen, your gifts are spread so wide</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">We’re not much help, though all have tried</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">We wish you well as you publicize</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">your art and verse. Your song is wise.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Evelyn, we miss your clever tales</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Of wizards and their strange travails.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">We hope you’re writing and completing </span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Your stories. Come rejoin us in our meeting.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">George, your remembering translates </span><br />
<span style="color: red;">And takes us back to football greats </span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Exciting history, now almost lost</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">today . And at what a cost.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Gordon, your stories are great and poems greater</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">You must have an idea incubator </span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Our simplest precious memory detail</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">You craft in words that fill our sail. </span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Jean, your Civil War love epic calls us</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">The careful moving plot enthralls us</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Romantic heroes, battles, love and spies</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Will soon be bringing readers’ sighs.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">But Jean, you’re the managing Mother</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Of the Bloc. You’ve become major other</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Who worries, helps and serves our group</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">You provide us with our weekly Chicken Soup.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Joe, Italy’s medieval memorabilia</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Enhances the story of your “famiglia”</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">History and sorcery you’ve intermixed </span><br />
<span style="color: red;">We try, but do we help you get it fixed?</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Laura, you’ve just joined the Bloc</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">So how to know if we’re the Doc</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">You want to help your wandering plot?</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">It’s great writing, impressing us a lot.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Louise, your fascinating women</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">And stories with mayhem brimmin’</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">We love the way you twist and turn</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Your people in plots we often struggle to discern</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Susan, your FairyTail puppets</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Are equal to our favorite Muppets</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">The stories that you carefully spin</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">We miss you well, please come back in. </span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Thomas, actor, dramatist, composer</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">For whom we all become supposer</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">The lyrical wit and wisdom of your writing</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Provides each week a candle-lighting.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Orin, your rhyming’s worse than awful</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">By now the Group’s had their craw full</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">You could quit if you were ahead </span><br />
<span style="color: red;">But, alas, you never leave things unsaid</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">You’re out of novels and tiring prose</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">But the computer beckons you. Compose.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">You still retain your taste for critical</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Why waste your time on things political? </span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">But let’s return to Carol, our indoctrinating Muse</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Who sees us sometimes win and often loose</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">What would we do without your words</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">That carefully peck at us like hungry birds</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Looking for meaning, then ascertaining</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">If we’re really on track or just no-braining</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">You buoy us up with careful praise</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">And then occasionally will raise</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">The question why we write the way we do?</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">What can we say, Carol? It’s because of you</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">We want your comment and attention. </span><br />
<span style="color: red;">We need your care and frequent mention</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Treat us firmly when we’re wrong </span><br />
<span style="color: red;">But sing to us some time your approving song.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Hey, the New Year’s almost here</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Maybe publishers will suddenly appear</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Who recognize our rare ability</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Before we slide into senility.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Or maybe in the millennial brain</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">No word-combinations remain</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">That have not previously been used</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">And all our work will be refused</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">As being in the past created</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">By authors, like us, but celebrated</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Who put their work into the hard-drives</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Of the computers that now rule our lives</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">We’ll continue to write and face the future</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Our rejection scars the Bloc will suture</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Reading to our Writers’ Bloc, we’re published HERE</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">So to all of us A HAPPY NEW WRITING YEAR.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;"></span>RW Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03724004576839141258noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7459807752252401397.post-26514482236429391232010-09-20T12:57:00.000-07:002010-09-26T10:03:25.621-07:00NINETY-NINE STORIESIn honor of those who died on 911<br />
<br />
NINETY-NINE STORIES<br />
<br />
by RW Richard<br />
<br />
<br />
A wall of searing blue flames pressed Hussam to the melted and broken windows. He couldn’t breathe and the heat was hell.<br />
<br />
“It’s you,” the pretty girl from personnel said. Over the months he had stolen glances of her and she did the same, both gutless wonders.<br />
<br />
“I’m Hussam Fayyad, your boss’s boss.”<br />
<br />
“I know. Save your breath. I’m Sarah Bernstein.” He knew.<br />
<br />
They locked their hands, tight. Leaned out and hesitated. Then, Sarah’s wavy auburn hair caught fire.<br />
<br />
“Marry me.” She screamed from the pain, tears evaporating. Taking off his jacket, he wrapped her head. <br />
<br />
“I will. I do.” Holding hands tight, they jumped out from the ninety-ninth floor.<br />
<br />
“I do,” she tried to say—her breath pushed inward by the rush of air—not that he could hear her anyway. She closed her eyes, he held unto her like a vise, as if they were one. Perhaps now they were.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
“Mom and dad I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Hussam Fayyad.” Her folks' home, a big split-level in Oradell New Jersey, had beautiful large tile floors, a modern kitchen, with a menorah on the table. The candles had pooled on the table top.<br />
<br />
“I guess it’s stupid for me to tell my daughter she should have chosen a nice Jewish boy?” Sarah’s mom asked rhetorically.<br />
<br />
“We’re soul mates,” Hussam said.<br />
<br />
“We’re besherte, mom.” She put it in Yiddish terms.<br />
<br />
He dared not open his eyes and lose this vision of her mom and dad. He had always thought about Sarah, trying to get up the nerve to ask her out. Worried of cultural, political, and religious differences. He didn’t believe in treating women like second class citizens, not at work, not in marriage. His hiring practices and office policies touted the heart of a modern liberated Moslem. <br />
<br />
“We’ll always love the thought of you,” her mom and dad said, hugging him.<br />
<br />
“We have to go to the wedding now,” Sarah said, pulling his hand.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
At the wedding, Hussam’s little brother carried the ring on a purple pillow. Sarah always knew Hussam would come by, lean on her desk, ask her out. They’d marry, have three kids, two girls, one boy, or the other way around. They both wanted to be outvoted in either case. These gorgeous kids would grow up brilliant and loving, real menches; oh yes, two dogs, just right.<br />
<br />
“I am so happy to have you in my heart.” Hussam’s parents, both a little portly, hugged her by the orchids stationed at the first row of seats in their garden. Tears turned to rivers. Images rifted through her of falafel, lamb kebob, along with gefilte fish, Manischewitz Blackberry for the toast. Bruce Springsteen’s band struck up, ‘Here Comes the Bride.’<br />
<br />
“He took my hand,” she explained to his mom and dad by way of apology.<br />
<br />
“Thank you pretty Sarah. My son, he always work, work, work.”<br />
<br />
She wished the world a better place, maybe a little less work, a little more love.<br />
<br />
“He needs a strong Jewish girl to love him,” his dad said. They kissed her cheeks.<br />
<br />
“I always had and always will love him,” Sarah said. She had harbored a tiny love, like a seedling, hoping to water it. No doubt about her feelings, now.<br />
<br />
Martin Luther King without thinking forgot to add one word, Moslem. “. . . when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews, <em>Moslems</em>, and Gentiles, Protestant and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual: 'Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last.'”<br />
<br />
Sarah’s heart beat the rhythm of Martin’s words. She felt Hussam heard and saw Martin with her at the Lincoln Memorial, because he squeezed her. He’d never let go.<br />
<br />
I am within you, Sarah.<br />
<br />
I am within you, Hussam.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
“Great Grand Papa.” Isaac Bernstein was gassed at Auschwitz, yet thin, young, suspendered, a silly fedora, munching on a pipe, his eyes opened to heaven.<br />
<br />
“You bring the right man with you, mazel tov. Hussam’s great grand mom and pop are at the bridge table with your great grandma, waiting for me to come back. You see, I’m the dummy. Those two died in Gaza. Bam, to pieces.” He splayed his hands.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
At the wedding, Cyndi Lauper spread her many orange, red, and yellow petty coats on the back step. With a sad face, she sang, 'Time After Time.'<br />
<br />
The Rabbi and Imam smiled from under the canopy on this day of brilliant blue. They finished with one voice, “in death you will start, because love is eternal.”<br />
<br />
Almighty God, Allah, blessed them, opened his arms and said, “kiss already.”<br />
<br />
We kissed.RW Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03724004576839141258noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7459807752252401397.post-36760136502555850492010-09-09T23:09:00.000-07:002010-09-09T23:11:52.515-07:00I'm dashed.Last night I showed my Robin Hood short story to my Filipina born wife. "I don't understand," she said. Let me be perfectly clear, I've stuffed this Harlequin bound (hopefully) short with tons of verbs, and a dash of middle English cleaned up to make sense. "I don't understand." Well, I'm going to bring this up with the Bloc when we meet.<br />
<br />
I'm writing for people who love Regency and Knights in shining armor romances. Do I simplify the language? I think I'll need to dig into some of my hundreds of romances (my wife's), find this type and check the prose.<br />
<br />
Apparently Robin Hood never traveled to the Philippines.RW Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03724004576839141258noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7459807752252401397.post-11383550237267489972010-08-26T11:40:00.000-07:002010-09-09T23:00:29.365-07:00Three R's for Writers<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;">READING, 'RITING AND RE-WRITING. </span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;">I love reading. It's almost, but not quite, as pleasurable as writing.. Words are my toys, my games. My lifelong relationship with words sometimes becomes adversarial. I think the words are mine, But they seem to belong to others as well. I swear they weren't cliches when I first wrote them. Anyway, I always find a surplus of words pushing me to put them on paper. But no matter how carefully I arrange them on the page they don't make it on their own.</span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, serif;">So maybe I should just give up and READ. And, of course, CRITIQUE. My Writers' group, Writers' Bloc is a strange group of people who believe that words are, more important than deeds. These writer-gypsies keep me motivated and their critiques keep me humble. A writer needs friends who know first-hand how hopeless and debilitating and humiliating it is to write, who accept you even when you come up with pure garbage.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, serif;">Our writer-teacher sets high standards but she's tolerant. Somehow we know she forgives us even when we don't make sense. This group is trying to help me with my fifth novel, EMBASSY, The Lord knows they've tried. But maybe it's time to take it out of Assisted Living, publish it online and move it into LONGTERM CARE or HOSPICE.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, serif;">As for me, maybe I should become a consultant, an expert on novels that are not quite good enough to publish, that don't have that "bottom-line" promise that sells in these over-entertained times. Maybe I'm even negative enough to become an agent. I'm very good at reading far enough into a novel to discover it's not worth finishing. I've partially read dozens of published novels and decided they weren't worth my reading time.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, serif;">But when I visit the bookstores I'm puzzled. Why are there so many of these mediocre novels on the shelves where my mediocre novels ought to be? PARKER</span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, serif;"></span></div></div></div>parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18019450283172482360noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7459807752252401397.post-90036098920912214762010-08-26T09:56:00.000-07:002010-08-26T10:36:26.377-07:00Writers' Faire at UCLALast Sunday I braved the freeways to LA to attend the Writers' Faire at UCLA thinking all the way that I must be crazy to expend this much time, gas money, parking money and mental stress on what was probably just a glorified advertisement for expensive Fall writing classes.<br /><br />I was wrong. It was really worth it. First time I've been on the UCLA campus. It's lovely. Interesting vendors at the Faire - friendly, helpful and not at all pushy. I learned about organizations I'd never heard of and a lot of events that sounded incredible. How about this: a Lit Crawl Saturday evening at The Echo on West Sunset Boulevard? As the poster (which I now have on my wall next the my computer) says, "It's a f**king Read-Off." I just might be tempted to make the freeway trip again to experience that one.<br /><br />Made me realize that, great as living in San Diego County is, we're missing so much fresh and exciting stuff going on in LA. It has the big city buzz, bursting with creativity. Okay, let's face it, Ann, you're a country bumpkin and you can stop gushing now.<br /><br />So anyway, after checking out the vendors, I went to four mini-classes, each about 40 minutes long. Four Writing Profs in each class: one moderating and three discussing their take on the subject. Classes I chose were: "Writing Your First Novel", "Creating Compelling Fictional Characters", "Giving Voice to Your Words" and "Art of the Short Story".<br /><br />All excellent teachers. What they taught was helpful and enlightening, how they looked was fascinating - a dead ringer for Santa Claus, a punker with dyed black hair and tattoos, a European sad sack in a fedora, a wholesome blonde girl next door. I wanted to take all their classes. <br /><br />Next time there's a Writers' Faire at UCLA, I'll be there with bells on.Ann Robsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10328335423317227357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7459807752252401397.post-73108154383241598472010-08-01T15:58:00.000-07:002010-09-23T11:06:42.807-07:00Book DesignOn Saturday, July 23 I attended a Publisher and Writers of San Diego meeting. The topic was book design. The speakers came from TLC Graphics. Some of the tips they gave: book covers should have four colors. If possible carry an element from the cover (for example: a design around your brand, a stripe at the edge of the cover or a shade behind the chapter heading) to the interior pages. Color on the interior pages will add to your costs, but will also add a the professional look to the book. Book designers can work only on your cover or treat the entire book with proofreading, design, turn your book into an e book. have book printed. All book text should be fully justified. A box around the text adds to the appearance.<br />
<br />
Introduce new paragraphs with either a space or indentation, not both. Be careful of quick conversions from printed text to e book. Scanners make mistakes, such as turning fancy h into a b throughout the book. Production process takes from 6 to nine months.<br />
<br />
A cover only design ranges from $300 to $2000. Complete design process with the printing of 1000 copies ranges from $10,000 to $12,000. Turning your text into an ebook only costs $300 to $500. Average cost for proofreading is $25 per hour.<br />
<br />
New in cover design: Ebossed title; debossed title; hard copy books without jackets; matt background color with glossy title. If you are a relative unknown, then title should be larger than author name.<br />
<br />
Signs of a poorly self-published book: header on first page of a chapter, two spaces between sentences; double dash instead of en dash. You may use a space on either side of an en dash or not, but must be consistant.clwoodhamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06164155670302851495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7459807752252401397.post-76110546995428844552010-07-01T11:11:00.000-07:002010-07-01T11:13:47.377-07:00the query processDear Mr. Me,<br />
<br />
<br />
While the plot for xxxx is definitely interesting and unique I don’t think it is well suited to Special Edition. With the suspense/mystery elements this story sounds more suited to Silhouette Romantic Suspense or perhaps Intrigue. These lines to my knowledge prefer to receive all proposals and query letters via the mail so you could send your query letter to: xxxxxxx <br />
<br />
Thank you and best of luck with your submission.<br />
<br />
Sincerely <br />
<br />
She gives the name an address of the appropriate editor.<br />
…….….<br />
<br />
Previous email (below) included the synopsis which I won’t bore you with. But I want to thank you all for your critique of it, which after I made corrections and submitted led to this series of emails.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Dear Ms. xxxxx, <br />
<br />
I noticed my target, Harlequin Flipside, has been retired. I’ve written a contemporary romantic comedy (55,000 words) set in the New York/Philadelphia region and cities. I wasn’t sure which imprint to query, so I called customer service and they recommended starting with Silhouette Special Edition. Also, you and I corresponded about using third person for all characters. If I might trouble you one more time; if you feel this belongs somewhere else, please let me know.<br />
<br />
My story, xxxx, investigates the romantic entanglements of male identical twins, one an artist, the other a comedian. Both enjoy the dubious habit of swapping places. Their fiancées, a lawyer and psychologist, are hell bent on stopping the boys’ shenanigans, and getting them to the altar. The double wedding holds one last surprise.<br />
<br />
I have written one screenplay for NBC. I’m now a full time novelist, and have written two novels previous to xxxx. I enjoy the earnest work of my critique group every week.<br />
<br />
Thank you for considering my story,<br />
<br />
Me, etc.<br />
…………………………<br />
<br />
Next: is my response to the top email:<br />
<br />
Dear xxxxx,<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, I should have written a more precise synopsis. The Mafia allusions are just comic interludes to enrich the story and help a character driven plot. Like Susan Mallery's "A Little Bit Pregnant" the break-in scene was much more about Zane and Nicki than getting in trouble.<br />
<br />
If you'd like a small piece of the story to see what I'm doing, let me know. Otherwise I'll regroup and investigate the other catagories.<br />
<br />
Thank you so much,<br />
<br />
Me again<br />
<br />
The reference to Mallery's novel was appropriate becuase she writes for their imprint. It's nice to have a thousand (at least) romance novels in my home. <br />
…………………<br />
<em>Stay tuned…</em>RW Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03724004576839141258noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7459807752252401397.post-12112532691591564812010-06-17T14:33:00.000-07:002010-06-17T14:50:30.309-07:00Learned at the last Publishers and Writers of San Diego meeting of a web site, publisherslunch.com which you may use to investigate your potential agent's recent sales and types of books sold. Don't you just love that name? I can picture a bunch of publishers around a table bragging about the deals they've pulled off. Also learned at the meeting: the term "self publishing" has morphed into "independent publishing;" a book title should be no more than three "emotive" words; and the title speaks to the heart while the subtitle speaks to the head.<br /><br />An agent speaking at the Del Mar library this month told us that children's books are always in demand, especially ones written for boys.clwoodhamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06164155670302851495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7459807752252401397.post-16979601370863099962010-06-11T16:20:00.000-07:002010-06-11T20:44:00.651-07:00Marx Brothers mirror sceneI thought I'd try something new to me; clipping an exerpt from youtube. What follows is the mirror scene from Duck Soup with about four minutes of the movie's set-up for the scene. The mirror scene was used (abused) in an excerpt I read today from my novel Swap. If you like the scene, youtube has many versions of it, some of which just show only the mirror portion which is about four minutes (of pure lunacy).<br />
<br />
The Marx brothers in the movie, Duck Soup, 1933.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/3nK8l2p1AYg&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&hd=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/3nK8l2p1AYg&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&hd=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></span></span>RW Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03724004576839141258noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7459807752252401397.post-32455656556433503472010-05-26T08:56:00.000-07:002010-05-26T09:17:50.204-07:00Saying GoodbyeI write the end of my first novel, <em>The Outreach Committee</em>, finding myself grieving for my characters - even the ones I've killed off. I've spent years getting to know and understand these people. My first book, <em>Sweet Justice</em>, contained twenty two short stories. I spent short periods with each set of charachters then, and didn't suffer separation anxiety as I do now.<br /><br />I'll start writing another novel soon, but the characters will be new acquaintances to shape and form. Will they be quirky? Sweet? Intollerant? Murderers? All of the above? Yes. That's my style. You writers out there, how do you handle end of the book grief? Please advise.<br />clwoodhamsclwoodhamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06164155670302851495noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7459807752252401397.post-2900433961343780042010-05-22T21:12:00.000-07:002010-05-26T15:48:01.309-07:00last session<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">I appreciate the critiques last session. Suggestions worked. Usually I guess because it's poetry I don't get that much action.</span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">My first blog. Keep getting dragged into the modern world. </span></div>Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16298401901254904383noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7459807752252401397.post-40235310535408567612010-05-18T09:12:00.000-07:002010-05-18T09:51:04.205-07:00Writing Memoir<div align="left"><span lang="EN"><p align="center"> WRITING MEMOIR by Caliboat,et.al. </p><p align="left">“I never thought of you as being rebellious,” Dee said. She was half way through reading a part of the writing I had been working on recently. We were sitting in a neighborhood café called “The Family Restaurant”. Not much creativity in that name! I had chosen a table in a far corner where it was as quiet as possible. We wanted to talk and I wanted to give her a chance to read a part of my memoir. </p><p>Four young construction workers on their lunch hour in a booth nearby were having a fine time talking too loudly and laughing and joking together. The television sounded off above the counter. The waitress greeted a customer with, </p><p>“Hi! Bill! How are you today? As usual, our specials are on the chalkboard over there…….The baked ham sure looks good.”</p><p>Through the noise and clatter of very informal “dining” Dee and I tried to visit. Then, while she read, I looked around the room. I tried to appear nonchalant about Dee’s reading. I didn’t want to rush her. I wanted her to be able to get the full import of what I was trying to say on paper. It seemed she was really surprised about what she was reading. </p><p>“I just can’t believe that you were ever rebellious”, she reported about the teenager I was revealing to her. She stopped every once in a while to comment on things like, “You really felt that way?” and “Is this really true? About you?” After a bit more reading she questioned, “But when I knew your mother she was such a beautiful lady, so gracious and kind. I never thought she could have been like that”. </p><p>“She was very loving then too, but as she was raising us, she was really still affected by her earlier attitudes as a flapper in the ‘20’s and her responsibilities as "Mother". Our relationship changed through the years since then, and we did too”. </p><p>Dee stopped reading every once in a while to tell me something she was reminded of about her childhood. Although I was impatient for her to get on with the reading, I realized that I was accomplishing my purpose. I was tapping into my reader’s bank of experiences and she was finding common ground with me although we had very, very different backgrounds and personalities. Since I was sitting there with her, she could share these thoughts with me. If she had been alone while she read, those thoughts would have come to her but remained silent. She would not have paused in her reading, I hoped! I mentally noted where she seemed to pause to reread something. I intended to go back and check out those places to see if I could reword them to make them clearer. She finally finished reading and said that she enjoyed it very much.</p><p>We ate our lunches. Dee had her fish and chips and I had my sandwich of freshly baked ham and lettuce and tomato. As usual, we both asked for white styrofoam boxes. We put the remaining halves of our lunches in them as “carry outs”. Dee was a widow and lived alone and her carryout was for her supper that night. I always took mine home for breakfast the next morning. I never liked traditional breakfast food, except for bacon and eggs. There was nothing special about the food but the place was convenient and on the way to the supermarket.</p><p>Later in the car on the way to shop, Dee made a pensive remark, “You know, I think I like you better since reading that you weren’t perfect when you were young.”</p><p>I thought, “Whoopee! I’ve hit the jackpot!” </p><p>Dee always said that she considered me her closest and best friend. We had known each other for almost thirty years. We knew each other’s joys and sorrows. We confided to each other on many of the events in our lives. I knew I had told her about my teen years, but this time she “heard” something that hadn’t registered with her before. I had managed to break through the mystique that she always seemed to attach to me, her “teacher” friend.</p><p align="center">. . .</p><p>“Why would I want to expose my faults and imperfections to my readers?” That was the question my husband asked me after reading another even more revealing part of my writing. </p><p>“Because it’s “Me”. I’m striving for absolute honesty.” </p><p>I was still fumbling for a more complete answer. There’s no sense in writing if I don’t give people some meat to chew on, something that causes them to dip into their own being, to grow, to change, or to understand me better.</p><p>I wrote about my life ever since I started keeping a diary in grade school. The diary is long gone but as an adult I threw the sheets of longhand into one of several cardboard boxes out under my worktable in my craft room. I don’t know but what the silverfish have gotten into the boxes by now and reduced my literary jewels to flakes of well shredded paper! I frequently used journaling as therapy to help get me through some very difficult times. </p><p>Recently, I began to do some serious writing that I hoped will be interesting to my descendants, if someone values it enough to save it! It is my intent to tell them what life was like in the late 1900’s and the new twenty first century. I recognized my writing as journaling. I became bored with “Just the facts, Ma'am” as Joe Friday, the detective used to say on “Dragnet”, a popular weekly TV serial program in the 1970’s. I began including reflections and attempts at reasoning in my journaling.”</p><p>When someone asked me what I was writing, I’d reply almost apologetically reply, “Oh, just stuff about my life.”</p><p>Then another good friend, Lynne, told me of a class offered for seniors ("the elderly") at nearby California State University San Marcos. The title of the course was “Writing Memoir”. We enrolled in it and that professor turned on the proverbial light bulb. Here was just what I had been leaning toward all along. I learned that memoir is much more than just a factual reporting of events that took place in one’s life. It is the product of processing the facts, ruminating on them, and coming up with concepts of cause and effect, or growth, or progress toward changed behavior. It involves analysis rather than just recording.</p><p>Maureen Murdock in her book, “The Unreliable Truth” states,</p><dir><dir><p><b>“The memoirist…both recounts an event and muses on it. “What meaning, what value do I attach to how my life has unfolded? How did this happen? How did that happen?” Finding out the truth of what happened could certainly challenge one’s sense of self.”(P.12)</p><p>“A memoir is a slice of life about which a writer muses, struggling to achieve some understanding of a particular life experience. A successful memoir demonstrates a writer’s slow coming in awareness, some reckoning with herself over time, some understanding of how her unconscious is at work. Because of this reckoning, the writing of memoir is not without pain. A memoir that successfully taps the reservoir of universal human feeling resonates strongly with its readers.” (P.24)</p><p>“Each memoirist has a different purpose in undertaking the writing of memoir, but each attempts the risky task of excavating specific events in order to understand the truth of her life.”(p.54) </p></b><p><b>“Lauren Slater challenges the reader to examine the nature of truth as she constructs her memory in her book, “Lying”. She asks the reader to confront the veracity of the masks we each wear, the stories we tell about ourselves, our families, our lovers, what we do for attention, affection, and acceptance: and how we make our way in the world.” (P.55)</p></dir></dir></b><p>Because of what I learned in that class I became able to answer the question, “What are you writing?” with “I’m writing memoir. It means that I have to try to be absolutely honest in telling a part of my life story. It contains social commentaries and spiritual insights that come to me as I remember and write about it. It‘s kinda like saying, ‘and the moral to the story is…” </p><p>If more explanation seems necessary I say, “Memoir is different from autobiography and journaling. It’s a very personal slice of life, not one’s whole life. I want to share with my reader some commentary and insight. In my case I hope to show changes in my character, both good and bad, as related to my position before God. It was not always constant and it wavered dramatically according to my obedience or defiance of God’s will, His Word the Bible, and His commandments. I hope my writing will explain how I became the person I really am today”.</p><p>Disclaimer:</p><p>These events in my life are absolutely true, to the best of my recollection. However, to engage and hold the reader’s attention, some of the material is presented as stories rather than as exposition or narration. This necessitates the construction of conversations from long ago, that cannot possibly be quotations. The dialogue is designed only as a vehicle to illustrate relationships and situations between actual characters in my past.</p><p align="center">With this as an introduction, I humbly offer my readers the following memoir entitled “Impaled…………” </p><p align="center"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"> </span></p><p> </p><p> </p><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"><p> </p></span></span></div>Barbara Boatrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17714583257553870398noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7459807752252401397.post-30925876546767116992010-05-11T18:50:00.000-07:002010-05-26T20:58:42.790-07:00THE COYOTE WHO CAME IN FROM THE HOT<span style="color: #6aa84f;">T</span><span style="color: #6aa84f;">his is now out in comic strip form and being considered by Bear Delux.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">These two-legs take everything of mine. Their huge dens surround me. My mate is gone. Our pups died by the legs of a big-squasher, and dirt-thrower, sat on by a two-leg. It is better to be on top of the big-squasher.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">I prowl night and day, mostly for big-ear hoppers. What will happen when they are gone? I cannot eat these prickly plants or stick-me bushes. I cannot eat the sand. If I get by the two-leg dens, there will be more dens and they will put a hole in me, like the one I licked on my mate before she died.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">One day I prowl by the dens and spot a big round two-leg with fur under his nose and his smaller sun-speckled faced two-leg pup watching me, both with big eyes. Strange, every chance I get I hide. Every chance they get they look for me. Leave me alone, I chase big-ear hoppers. They are fast, but easy, really. Just be ready to lope between them and their nests and then be where they want to go, before they get there. But these two-legs do not need my food. So they can stay away.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">Fur-Nose, and Speckle-Face look, and once-in-a-while Fur-Nose’s mate looks. But what do they want? The Earth Mother favors me anyway. They will have to be good to me.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">I am hungry today. The big ear hoppers are hiding. I am very hungry tonight. I had to eat a two-leg’s meow hunter. But, I did not eat Fur-Nose, Speckle-Face, and Mate’s big furry hunter.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">Their hunter does not bark at me, does not bark at all. She just stays by Fur-Nose and Speckle-Face, and watches me. Hey, I am not that good looking. I hide but she must smell me, because I smell her. I am lonely, so I will not eat her. Maybe we can have pups. But, No-Bark will not leave her big den.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">I stare. I promise, I will not eat you, but she just smiles back.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">Every day and every night, she watches me. The two-legs try to see me. I stare back at No-Bark and then hide.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">No-Bark has thick two-shade fur and a tail that says, follow me, play with me. She has a tail like my own, and ears like mine but smaller. I cannot get her. I will not climb over into the big den; Fur-Nose might kill me with his hole-maker.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">At the end of another day, I fall into a hole a two-leg on a big-squasher made. Stupid of me, the earth falls down. My leg goes the wrong way. I cannot get out. It is too deep, and I am too broken.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">I guess I will die here. I have no mate, no pups. I am dead already.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">Speckle-Face and No-Bark look down at me with a piece of lightning fire. Just go away, you see me here, I am hungry, I will bite you, I am broken, and I will die. Then, they will eat me.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">No-Bark cries and stays, while Speckle-Face goes and comes back with Fur-Nose. Fur-Nose has cow skins on his hands and many other animal skins all over him. He reaches down. I bite hard on the cow-hand, he makes a big noise, but tries again. Now, cow would be good food, but not Fur-Nose; he is too salty, and these two-legs are too scary.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">Just let me die. I give up.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">He pulls me up. He holds on to me, as if I am a two-leg baby or his Speckle-Face. Hey, I am not a pup anymore. Stop it. Their eyes never stop looking at me. No-Bark jumps and sniffs. Why? What is the use? I know, take me to your den, I will die and you all can eat fresh meat. He takes me to a two-leg who sticks me with a tiny piece of stick-me bush. I wake up and my leg is in chalky stone. I gnaw, but I cannot break the stone and it tastes terrible. So, I give up. I go to Fur-Nose’s den. The den has many little dens inside, with two-leg things everywhere. One day Fur-Nose takes me back to Stick-Me. He sticks me and I wake up with no stone on my leg.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">My leg is good now. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">Back in the den, I eat the strange food No-Bark eats. I hide from Fur-Nose, Speckle-Face, and Mate, but they just smile. Speckle-Face is always making happy noises when he sees me. I like him, but I still hide. Mate sounds like a bird. They all make great smells from the food place, sometimes for me. Oh, burnt cow is very good. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">No-Bark howls every night. I yip and howl. Sometimes we howl together. What a strange den it is. It has trees that go sideways with many trunks. I often think I should mark these trunks, but No-Bark always gives me the no look. It is a den. I understand. So, we pee on the little plants, under the hot sun and the cold moon.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">I could climb over the den and run, but I have no mate, I lost my pups. And, big-ear hoppers are hard to catch, these days.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">One day, other two-legs come and they all make angry noise at each other. They take me back to Stick-Me. This time Stick-Me is sad, when he holds the tiny piece of stick-me bush. He is going to kill me. Held down by vines, I cannot move. I give up.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">Fur-Nose and Speckle-Face come in with another two-leg who has a string of flat flowers down his chest and large white leaves in his hand, which he waves at Stick-Me. I go with Fur-Nose and Speckle-Face. Stick-Me smiles. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">Many two-legs come to see me in the den. They build Fur-Nose’s den higher on the outside under the hot sun and the cold moon. No-Bark sleeps with me now, and she will have our pups.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">Fur-Nose and Speckle-Face sit and look at me. They push my fur. I do not know if I like it. I often hide, but they always find me, and then they look at me, and touch me again, and again, and again. I give up.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">I will like this someday. No-Bark does.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">One day I think I like it; I like Fur-Nose and Speckle-Face. I love them and No-Bark. Mate hides from me, but I prance. My eyes see her eyes. I am not that good looking, but she will like me. Then she will love me, and I, well, I already love her. Fur-Nose, Speckle-Face, Mate, No-Bark, and I do-not-know-my-name smell, hear, and watch the big-ear hoppers, but they are impossible to catch these days. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">Fur-Nose, Speckles, and Mate call me Coyote. No-Bark does not call me anything. She licks me and so do our puppies.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444;">* * *</span></div><span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span>RW Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03724004576839141258noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7459807752252401397.post-33359085871927883442010-05-03T15:13:00.000-07:002010-05-26T20:59:36.887-07:00You're the One That I WantMy first try at YA.<br />
<br />
<br />
Summer arrived, no more school, just a ton of summer reading, and my first true love, whoever she was. The moms and dads were talking about building a community pool. In the meantime, I was carted off to a pool down the road maybe 15 minutes by moms taking turns with station wagons. They hauled me and my noisy friends. I became quiet. I was more interested in another station wagon, which I couldn’t hitch a ride with, because I was a boy, still am. Hey at fifteen, I already had played spin-the-bottle and hung out for a while with a different girl every other week. I kissed a lot of the girls in the neighborhood, but somebody in that other station wagon made me curious, Margie, a fourteen year old beauty with the sweetest smile. Margie was untouchable because she was a good girl, a real good girl. A girl my mom would be so proud of. She had no experience with boys, but I’d change all that.<br />
<br />
Down a dust clouded dirt road we rambled to a pool surrounded by hide-and-seek sand dunes and pine trees. There we would read, play tag, race. I was the fastest swimmer, but Margie wanted to catch me or beat me to a wall. I wouldn’t let her. She was so sweet, but her parents protected her with a ton of rules. They wouldn’t let her out of their sight, except for these innocent trips to this piece of heaven called a pool, where they left her with some of her girlfriends and other moms as chaperones.<br />
<br />
One of her friends mentioned she thought Margie liked me, a nice surprise. She wouldn’t tell me how she knew, “Oh just a hunch.”<br />
<br />
I talked about it with my guy friends, more to stop competition than get approval. This went on for two weeks. I really had to make some sort of move before one of my friends ruined it all for me by stealing her affection, but I feared rejection. I certainly couldn’t try the day Margie’s mom assumed hawk duty. If the right mom stood guard, maybe, just maybe, she'd look the other way, or better, just smile at young love, and keep a secret. I knew the right moms. I prayed. I also prayed for bravery. You never want to get rejected, your friends might start snickering, and worse Margie might not come to the pool anymore. I’d forever lose her.<br />
<br />
I sat down on one of the three blankets with all the kids, picking a little bit of pine tree shade. She sprang out of the pool like a mermaid and plopped right next to me on the spot I maneuvered by stretching out then withdrawing my legs as soon as she came close. Her girlfriends giggled for some good reason I hoped. This had to be it. Mrs. Julien was on duty. She loved us, had an open mind. She’d keep a secret. Her laughing smile under dark black sunglasses meant to me, what are you waiting for.<br />
<br />
“I’ve got some extra peanut butter and jelly to swap,” I said peeking at Margie’s locked gaze and holding out the wax paper with the sandwich for her inspection.<br />
<br />
“How about a Tastycake for half a sandwich?” Margie asked, giving me that I can’t eat all-of-that look. Just maybe behind those sweet eyes, she was feeling the same crazy excitement I felt. I’d explode if I were a balloon. So how would I find out if she felt the same?<br />
<br />
“Do you like to play cards? I asked.<br />
<br />
“I’d love to.” She said. More giggling. My heart swelled. I could hardly look at her, but I had to, I was the guy. I had to lead her, but I wasn’t sure just where. Margie was still just a kid in a young lady’s perfect body, perfect for me. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I’d take a chance. I made my plan.<br />
<br />
To be continued . . .RW Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03724004576839141258noreply@blogger.com1