InkSpotter News

Information and Support for Creative Writers

 Published by InkSpotter Writing & Editing

Volume 2.07                September 2004

Advertise your writing-related product or service in the next issue of InkSpotter News.

In This Issue

Editorial

Bookmarks

Feature Article

Paying Markets

Pen & Ink

Contests

Book Review

Online Resources

Literary Lapse

Bragging Rights

Letters to the Editor

Editorial

Full Disclosure

Just try having a successful literary career when your name is Betty Dobson.

Don't understand the problem? Try this on for size.

When I worked downtown, lunchtime generally meant a dash to the closest sandwich shop. I even had my own table. (Well, most days, anyway. The occasional interloper who didn't know any better might get there first.) Perched safely away from the flow of foot traffic, I could observe people and write fictional accounts of their lives. 

One Monday, as I scribbled away madly in my journal, a co-worker approached with a little too much spring in his step. 

"You've been holding out on me," he said. 

"Pardon?" I said, thinking we hardly knew each other well enough for full disclosure. 

He sat down and leaned one elbow on the table. "You didn't tell me you had a book published." 

"Well," I said, tapping my pen on the half-filled page in front of me, "that's probably because I don't." 

"But I saw it, last night, on TV." His grin looked about ready to split his face in two. 

"What are you talking about?" 

"Sex for One," he said, "by Betty Dobson." 

I soon forgot about my journal. 

After assuring my co-worker that he had the wrong sexpert, I ran back to the office and checked the Internet. 

Sure enough, there she was--Betty Dobson, queen of masturbation--with not one book, but several. I felt a little hollow space pop open in my stomach. 

Every once in a while, a friend or co-worker will approach me with the same smile. We'll have the same discussion. I can handle that. They're just having fun. No one actually believes that I'm the woman behind Self Love. 

Then I started getting emails and letters from total strangers who'd visited my Web site. 

"Can you save our marriage?" 

"Where can I buy your books?" 

"Will you be holding any seminars in <insert location here> this year?" 

I'm seriously considering adding a disclaimer after my name: "No, I'm not that Betty Dobson." Or maybe I should just roll with it and start a sex column. 

Until then, I dedicate this issue to the "other" Betty Dobson. My use of markets, contests and resources for writers of erotica ought to add to the confusion quite nicely.

Betty Dobson, Publisher/Editor

Bookmarks

Each issue, I use this space to share my personal writing-related successes from the past month. With any luck, I'll never run out of material.

If you want to win writing contests and earn that elusive tag of 'award-winning writer' or if you just want to hone your skills, this book will point you in the right direction. Written by Cheryl Wright--author of number one best selling e-book Think Outside the Square: Writing Publishable (Short) Stories.

• "Canadian Favourites: Delivering Home Away From Home"
• "Tim Horton Scored Twice"

• "Unicorns & Roosters: The Good Old Days of Canadian TV"

Also established a Canadian Culture Forum where you can share your views on related topics.

Feature Article  

On the Need for Quality Description
From Collected Essays
by W. A. Rieser

You may not have given it much thought, but you've all seen detective dramas on television wherein an eyewitness to an event is asked to describe what they've seen. More often than not, the response is bland and inconclusive unless the witness has had a person or a scenario unshakably etched into his/her mind for a memorable reason. Even so, a strong opposing attorney in court can manipulate a weak description to create severe doubt in the jury's thoughts by making the testimony seem uncertain. This is precisely the wall to be climbed by the writer in describing objects and people to his readers. Fail to be convincing and even the most desultory scanner of your story can lose interest or misinterpret your intentions. This is death to writers who seek recognition and wish to be remembered or quoted.

There was a tree in the field. Wonderful. Now what are you going to do with it? You've got five senses to play with, the very same inspiration that gives us empirical science. How can they be applied? First of all, ask yourself the five basic questions.

1. What does the tree look like? Does it have a thick or slim trunk, lots of branches and do they bear leaves or fruit? What colours does the tree show and does it cast a unique shadow? How is the sun perceived through its labyrinth? Are there animals and insects in the tree or people walking nearby? Is it beautiful or ugly, slender or twisted in rolling knots, pristine or hacked, standing tall or bent over with age? Is it forlorn or majestic?

2. How does the tree feel? Is the bark rough like an oak, filled with fissures and hard against your fingers? Does it have a smooth skin like the white birch or slippery elm and does sap run along its length? Do falling leaves caress you when you stand beneath it or does it shelter you from the rain? Do the leaves feel tender, young and full of refreshed life or are they old, wrinkled and prepared to nurture the earth? Is it warm or did you appreciate the campfire of its dead branches? Do snow and ice weigh the branches down with temporary sculpture?

3. What smells come from this tree? Can you perceive the scent of pine or differentiate it from mint? Is there a nutty flavour in the air or the odour of dropped fruit on the ground? Is there a maple sugariness about it, wavering in your nostrils? Does green descend upon you to deliver the verdancy of the leaves when the wind rushes through them? Can you sense the inner pith, the wine of the bark, or the lime freshness of the spots where the skin has been stripped off?

4. How does it taste? Did you boil some of the leaves for tea or crush the bark into a healing broth? Have you sipped the dew of the morning or sucked the honey from a bees' nest? Did you roast a marshmallow within its shadow or savour coffee? Did you eat of its fruit and rejoice in that succulence? Was it so old that it crackled in the campfire with a charcoal residue or did its newness cause a lingering, complaining smoke that choked you?

5. What did the tree say? Was there a message in the leaves as they swayed with the wind? Did it snap at you in whipping gusts of anger? Did the trunk groan during the storm or split shrieking amidst the lightning strike? Did you notice the gentle poem of the summer breeze as it graced by the limbs? Was there a nearby stream to sing a lullaby as the roots drank quietly? Did the tree respond in chorus to the rain or stand mute under the sun or were there nightingales there to carry the melody?

Are we finished? Hardly. Did it scare you on a stormy Halloween night? Did its winter branches whip against your window like some savage taskmaster? Were you comforted by its presence, seeing it again after a long journey? Is your cat hiding mischievously within its arms or is the neighbourhood squirrel storing nuts for the winter inside a knothole? Have the blue jays raised a family or is the mockingbird happy to greet the sun this morning?

Then again, the statement used past tense. What happened to it? Did it get cut down because somebody wanted to plough in that spot? Did it interfere with a new construction or was it blocking the view of something behind it? Was it hit by a vehicle and damaged beyond recovery? Was someone hanged on its limbs or did a child climb up and make a tree house in it, only to fall down and break an arm? Did lovers carve their initials into it in the past, only to find naught but a stump when they revisited in old age? Did it suffer horribly from predatory insects, a debilitating disease or has it triumphed against all adversity?

The possibilities are limited only by your imagination. Consider the fact that we have yet to consider the tree's environment, the field or the psychology or psychoses of flora in general. As you should be able to sense, details like that are telling. They make a difference and will glorify your narratives with items that make your creations breathe with life and reality. They may seem like small things, but they build character into scenes that would otherwise be lacking. Once you've managed to improve your technique by assigning traits to objects, you can then focus on the much more formidable task of qualifying people and the complex baggage that always accompanies us on our sojourns.    

#

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: William Alan Rieser, B.A., M.A., has had careers in teaching, conducting, composing, performing music, umpiring, electronics, supervising and finally writing in his retirement. He is now a professional editor and has published 16 novels and hundreds of shorts and articles.

Collected Essays

Book-in-a-Week

Online writing group that comes together once a month to set goals and write. During BIW, writers write as much as they can and post their daily totals to the list.

Writer Gazette

Bringing you FREE writer-related articles, paying calls for submission and freelance job postings, contests, resources, tips, and more to help induce, improve, and promote your writing career - every week.

Paying Markets

Let's walk on the wild side this month and explore the world of erotica (not to be confused with pornography). If you think you've got what it takes to stimulate the senses and stir the baser instincts of men and women, give these markets a try.

La Petite Mort: Tales of Sex and Death - La petite mort means "the little death"--more commonly known as the orgasm. This anthology will explore connections between sex and death. NO PORN, UNDERAGE, OR NON-CONSENSUAL SEX.

Deadline: October 1, 2004

Editor: Mitzi Szereto
Query (full guidelines & postal info): WordDabbler@yahoo.com

Length: 7,000 words or less

Rights: One-time anthology rights

Pays: Not specified

Xodtica Magazine - A bi-monthly (January, March, May, July, September and November) magazine available in e-book format. Publishes erotic romance. Premiers September 2004.

Reading Period: 1st through the 15th (monthly)

Publisher/Editor: Lynn Crain
Submit to: submissions@xodtica.com

Length: Fiction 500-12,000 words, non-fiction 500-5,000 words, columns/departments 1,500 words or less, fillers 1,000 words or less
Rights: First Rights

Pays: On acceptance, fiction $20, non-fiction $17.50, columns/departments $10, fillers $10 (plus a royalty percentage on all published work)

Circlet Press - Publishes books of erotic science fiction and fantasy short stories. Currently restricting unsolicited submissions to stories for their anthologies. Guidelines include a long list of don'ts, so read carefully.

Reading Period: April 15 through August 31 (annually)

Editor: Cecilia Tan
Submit to: editorial@circlet.com

Length: 15,000 words or less
Rights: Accepts reprints

Pays: Average payment is between $30 and $75 per story

FNASR - First North American Serial Rights.

Before submitting your work to any publication, be sure to read their writers' guidelines.

Want links to paying Canadian markets?

Pen & Ink 

William Rieser (a.k.a. Penumbra) joins yours truly (a.k.a. InkSpotter) to form the team "Pen & Ink." Each month, we'll feature poetry and prose from The Writers Association's growing list of anthologies.

This month's selections--the short story "The Librarian" by Ben Cooper and the poem "Exposed Within" by Teri Marcotte--were published, respectively, in Journey and The Artist Tree, both currently available from Lulu Books.

The Librarian
by Ben Cooper

The local library was three blocks from my house and I'd always considered myself lucky for it. It was a five minute walk to a building that housed more books than I could read in a lifetime, all free for the taking. I took advantage of it often.

It was Saturday, and since I was off (I was a substitute teacher), decided to pay the library a visit. My "books-to-read" pile was getting slim and I needed to restock. Substituting was usually a boring job. Books were a lifesaver.

I took a shower, shaved, pissed, got dressed, ate breakfast, then donned my shoes. After double-checking that my library card was in my wallet, I stepped outside and locked the door behind me.

Within minutes, I was walking through the library's sliding glass doors, which permitted my entrance with a faint his-s-s-s.

I received a few waves and "hellos" from the staff, then ducked into the fiction section. I've never had the attention span for most non-fiction and my library clumps everything from sci-fi, to romance, to fantasy, to horror in fiction. It was the only area I ever browsed.

I walked down the aisles and stopped quite suddenly as a book caught my eye. Impossibly white, it was sticking out about an inch or so from the other books. Its bindings were blank. I pulled it out and looked at the cover. It said The Book of Nightmares, by: The Librarian in illustrious red letters. That's all. No picture.

I'd always meant to read one of The Librarian's books. He was a local legend and his horror stories had acquired a significant cult following. And since he was an employee at the library, I almost felt like I owed it to him.

I tucked the book under my arm and took a seat at a table in the back, adjacent to a large window that overlooked the highway.

I'd always been curious about his name, The Librarian. I'm fairly sure he wasn't christened with that name, I doubt his parent's had the foresight to name him that, but his name-tag read that way and it was the only title he responded to. Kind of creepy, if you ask me.

But unlike many horror writers you see with their photos pinned up in the back of their books, The Librarian actually looked like a psycho. He was about the weight of your average skeleton and his skin was pulled so tightly over his bones that a quick movement probably would have torn it right off. He was completely bald on the crown of his head with long grey strands of unwashed hair running down his back like greasy, lifeless fingers. He had a set of teeth that probably hadn't seen a toothbrush more than twice in their existence. Picture the host of "Tale's From the Crypt" in a suit and you'll get the general idea.

I laid the book on the table and opened it to the first page. It was filled with quotes of praise.

"The Librarian's stories are so realistic that it's almost impossible to believe that they are fiction ... Positively chilling" - New York Times.

"I have never read a more frightening collection of short stories. It's almost as if The Librarian crawled inside my head and put all of my wildest fears onto paper. Book of Nightmares is as terrifying as it is riveting." - Locus Mag.

It continued in this manner for three more pages. Not bad. I had no idea that he was so critically acclaimed. I glanced over to my left and there he was, checking a woman out, his bronze name tag shining to perfection, The Librarian inscribed across it in black letters. He wished the woman a good day and smiled, flashing his gnarly teeth. Yikes. I returned to the book and began to read.

The blurbs were right. After just the first short story, which was only ten pages long, I was hooked. It freaked me out like no short ever has. I began the next one with anticipation. Again it was a success. I caught myself holding my breath while I read, and with each successive story, the hook sunk deeper and deeper. These stories are brilliant, I found myself thinking. Even if I'd wanted to, I sincerely doubt that I could have put the book down. So I kept turning and turning ... and turning ... and ... turning ... and ...

* * *

I woke up to find my face buried in the book. I sat up and stretched, thinking, how could I have fallen asleep? Book of Nightmares was one of the greatest reads I'd come across in a long time. It seemed strange that I would just doze off like that.

After I dog-eared the top of my current page, I worked my way to the front. I decided, since I was already here, that I should tell The Librarian in person what a good book this was.

I arrived at "Information" and looked around. The Librarian was nowhere to be seen.

"Can I help you, Steven?" Linda, the old information lady, said when she noticed me peering around.

"Yeah, I'm looking for The Librarian. Have you seen him?"

Linda smiled. "Very funny, Steven."

"What?"

She frowned. "The Librarian died three years ago."

"No," I said. "I just saw him about an hour ago. He was checking people out."

"You're a nice man, Steven, but this is not my kind of humour."

"I'm not joking." I looked past her and there he was in the back room making copies of something. "Look," I said, pointing, "he's making copies right there."

Linda turned and looked, then faced me again, agitated. "Steven, please stop. This really isn't funny. The Librarian died three years ago. I attended his funeral as did most of the staff that worked here at the time."

I started to say something else but stopped myself at the look of Linda's face. She was serious.

"I apologize," I said eventually. I looked back into the copy room. The Librarian had already left. "My mistake."

She nodded, then refused to meet my eyes anymore.

I made my way back to my table feeling confused. Why was Linda acting so strange? She had to have seen The Librarian around. He checked out my books just last week. I was beginning to think that this was all some sort of prank when I stopped dead in my tracks, just before my table.

The Librarian was sitting in my seat. He turned his head toward me, slowly, stared up at me with a curious expression. He smelled terrible, a musty combination of rotten meat, spoiled fruit and vomit. His right eye hung dead as if he'd suffered an apoplexy and never fully recovered.

"Wha ..." I cleared my throat. "What are you doing?"

He continued to stare for a time, then tapped the front of his book with a long yellow fingernail. Tap ... tap ... tap.

"Are you dead?" I blurted before I could catch myself.

He nodded slowly.

"Then ... how can I see you?"

He tilted his head and smiled wickedly.

"Wait. You don't mean ..."

His smile grew.

"No! That can't be! I'm a substitute teacher!" I fumbled for some sort of explanation to prove him wrong. "If ... if I was dead ... then how could my students have seen me?"

"Maybe," The Librarian said, and when he opened his mouth I could see that it was full of wriggling little worms, "your students are no more alive than you are. Maybe you and these classes are just full of people who refuse to accept the truth."

My heart hammered against my ribs. This can't be happening. I turned and started to run and I could hear The Librarian laughing at me, a terrible sound that crawled up my spine like a colony of spiders.

* * *

I woke to find my face buried in the book. I sat up, stretched, and took a deep breath. It had all been a dream. But a lengthy one. It was night out now. I must have slept the entire day.

I stood, closed the book, tucked it under my arm and started toward the check-out desk, wondering how I could have slept so long. Night? I must have been out for twelve hours.

I started toward the check-out counter ... when it hit me. There was no one here. I stepped into the center of the room and looked around. There wasn't a single soul in the building. It was hauntingly and utterly empty.

I put the book down on the nearest table, briskly walked to the front and tried the doors. They were locked. Not good. The library must have closed while I'd been asleep. How could this have happened? I thought. How could no one have known I was still in here?

I walked back to the information desk, reached over the counter, picked up the phone and started dialling.

"It's dead."

I dropped the phone and spun around. The Librarian was standing about two feet from me, his black suit perfectly pressed, his greasy hair dripping down his back like an octopus's tentacles. His eye was normal this time. For some reason, that creeped me out.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"Follow me."

"Uh ... Look. I need to leave. I got locked in."

"I know. But I can't let you out through the front doors. The alarm is already set. I'll let you out through the exit down below."

He turned and walked away almost robotically. Seeing no other options, I followed behind at a safe distance. My dream had a profound impact on me. I kept thinking of him as dead, worms wriggling in his mouth as he told me that I was too. As silly as it sounds, I didn't want to get too close.

The Librarian crossed the main room and stopped at an aging wooden door labelled "Storage." He pulled some keys from his pocket, unlocked the door and swung it open. I could see a staircase just beyond. It led to a basement. The Librarian paused at the first step and looked back to make sure I was still following.

I swallowed my hesitation and started after him.

As we were descending the stairs, I said, "I was reading your book. It's very good."

He didn't seem to hear me.

At the bottom of the staircase, he took a right. The basement was filled with dusty old tomes, boxes, crates, paper, donation bins and various supplies. As I walked, I listened to The Librarian's feet, which dragged ever so slightly on the concrete floor.

After a time, we stopped at yet another doorway that had to be unlocked.

"All this to get to an exit?" I said jokingly.

The Librarian looked at me over his shoulder, then turned his attention back to the lock. Not one for humour, apparently. He swung the door open and beckoned me inside. It was dark, but as I stepped in, he flipped a switch on the wall and the overhead lights sputtered to life. The air was thick with the stenches of blood, urine and feces. I nearly gagged. I started to ask about the reek when I saw something that nearly made me collapse.

There, nailed to huge crosses that were up against the wall, were my parents. Crucified. My dad was dead by the looks of it. His head hung limp. The blood from his hands and feet, which was splattered across the wood and walls and floor, was dried and flaking. His chest was completely still. My mom was not so lucky. Her wounds were still bleeding. She looked up as I entered and through blood crusted lips, she screamed:

"Run! Oh, G-d! Steven, just run!"

It took a moment for my mom's words to register and before I could react the door slammed shut behind me of its own accord. I tried the handle, my hands quivering, but it wouldn't budge. I spun around ...  The Librarian was admiring his work on my parents as if considering an exhibit at a museum. I started to say something, to scream, but what I saw next stole the words from my mouth.

At the far end of the room rested another cross, an empty one, with my name engraved across its center in broken, misshapen lettering.

* * *

I woke to find my face buried within the book. I opened my eyes, sat up, and nearly leaped from my seat. The Librarian was sitting across from me, staring at me, his skeletal face expressionless. Quickly, I looked around. The library was still open. People were wandering the isles, using the computers, the usual stuff. And it was day. Noonish, by the looks of it.

I exhaled loudly. Just another dream.

But The Librarian was still staring at me.

"There is no sleeping in the library," he said. His voice was gritty and quiet.

"I'm sorry. I was just reading your book and I dozed off."

He smiled ruefully. "That bad, was it?"

"Oh, no. It was really good, actually."

"So good that it put you to sleep?"

"No, no. You're getting the wrong idea. I was just reading and suddenly ..." I paused at the look of utter malice in The Librarian's eyes. I don't think I have ever seen such hatred in a gaze. "I'm dreaming again, aren't I?"

The Librarian shook his head. "You never were."

With inhuman quickness, he slammed a pair of metal spikes through my hands, binding  me to the table. I screamed as pain slithered up my arms like molten snakes. Instinctively, I tried to tug my hands away. The pain that racked my body was so severe that I nearly passed out. I squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my jaw, fighting to maintain consciousness.

When I opened my eyes again, The Librarian was sitting on top of the table, Indian-style, fishing through his coat pocket for something. My breathing grew shallow. I wasn't dreaming, that much was certain. No dream could ever hurt this much. 

I screamed for help, my voice tearing through my throat, but no one glanced my way. I screamed louder, my voice panicky and frantic. Again, no reaction.

"They can't hear you," The Librarian said as his bony fingers threaded a needle.

"H-how?" I stammered. "H-how is th-this possible?"

The Librarian paused and blinked at me. "Does it matter?"

I closed my eyes and shook my head, chanting "this can't be happening ... this can't be happening," as if it were my mantra. Blood drained from my wounds and dripped from the table's edge.

I felt a hand, cold and impossibly strong, grip my jaw. My eyes shot open. I was just in time to see The Librarian begin sewing my lips together with twine. I tried to pull away, but his hand held me tight. I attempted to pull my lips apart so he couldn't finish the job, but it was so painful that I gave up on the second attempt.

By the time he was done, I was crying and the tears mixed with the blood that was running down my chin and staining my shirt.

As The Librarian put away his needle and twine, he said: "You're probably wondering why I've just sewn your mouth shut. It's quite simple, really. While administering torture, some people find a victim's screams invigorating. I don't. I think it's distracting and annoying. And I already know exactly how painful my methods are. There is no need to hear my victims confirm it throughout every session."

My tears were coming faster now. I turned my head. There was an old woman standing near my table, flipping through the pages of a romance novel. I tried to get her attention, but she didn't notice. It was as if I didn't exist.

When I turned back toward The Librarian, he was twirling a ghastly hook in his right hand. My eyes went wide at the sight of it.

He laughed then, a shrill, high-pitched sound, and said, "Say when," knowing very well that I could do no such thing.

* * *

I woke to find my face buried in the book. I sat up and rapidly looked around me. It was daylight, the library still open. That brought me no comfort. My lips and hands still echoed with pain from the last dream.

I stood up, closed the book and marched to the shelf I picked it up from. Dream or not, I was getting out of that place before something else happened.

But as I was placing the book on the shelf, an all too familiar voice said:

"Did you enjoy my book?"

I started walking backwards, shaking my head. "Not again."

"I can make the dreams end, you know," The Librarian said.

My heart was in my throat. "Get away from me!"

"All you have to do is sign this contract."

I paused. "What contract?"

The Librarian reached into his coat pocket and retrieved an ancient, weather-beaten piece of parchment. He handed it to me. It read:

“The dreams will cease if you sign below. By signing, you will be transferring ownership of your Soul to the document holder. This contract is Eternally Binding.”

           Signed                    .

"No," I said. Now that I knew what this was all about, it terrified me even more. I threw the contract to the floor. "No! Get the hell away from me!"

I turned to run, but he was suddenly in front of me again, a mere foot away.

"Do not think that I cannot take your soul, Steven."

"You can't!" I screamed.

"Oh, I can," The Librarian said with sickening confidence. "You see, people have always believed that Cannibals eat others simply because they enjoy the taste of flesh. Not so. Cannibals are simply men born without souls. And the only way to acquire another's without a contract is to eat them. By digesting their body, you digest all that is attached."

I turned to run, but again he was in front of me. And this time he wasted no time with words. He simply opened his mouth and sank his teeth into my cheek.

* * *

I woke to find myself lying in my bed. It was early morning. I have no idea how I got here. Could I have dreamed the entire day? Did I ever leave my apartment? It doesn't matter, I told myself. All that mattered was that I was out of that library and away from ...

I screamed. Sitting on the edge of my bed, holding his ghostly white novel, was The Librarian. I slid up against the wall, eyes wide with fear.

"Oh, God. What the hell is going on?" I said, staring at my feet. It was a rhetorical question, but The Librarian answered anyway.

"It's because you read my book."

I looked up and forced myself to calm down. "What do you mean?"

"The book you chose at the library, my book ... it was a trap."

"A trap?"

"Yes." He took a deep breath. "You see, I don't actually write these novels. I more or less produce them."

"What?"

He tossed the book he was holding to my feet. "Open it."

I did. Then I understood. The first chapter contained everything that had happened to me that day. My experiences in the library, my thoughts, my feelings, my fears. All of it was there in words.

"People always rave about how my books are so realistic, but they have no idea how right they are. My books are a collection of actual people's fears and nightmares-people who have fallen into one of my traps, the way you did." He spread his hands. "Like I said before, I don't write these. I simply produce them."

I nodded, swallowed thickly, handed back the book.

"Well," I said, striving for an optimistic tone and falling short, "is it over with?"

The Librarian smiled and shook his head. "Oh no, Steven. We're just starting chapter two."

Then he pulled a knife from his belt and crawled toward me.

Journey

Linear Reflections

Within our virtual pages you will find comprehensive reviews of as many of the world's art forms as possible. Our staff works hard to bring you a mixture of reviews - on music, literature, art, movies, stage, concerts and even video games. Our reviews are not only for adults, but also for the kid in everyone. Come visit us at:   and sign up for our FREE newsletter. If you have something you'd like to submit, or are interested in reviewing, please contact us.

Think Outside the Square

Award-Winning Author Tells All - Learn Her Coveted Secrets - Write Short Stories AND Get Them Published

Marketing for Writers

Marketing For Writers e-course will show you how to make more money from your writing, no matter what you write. 10 marketing lessons written specifically for writers. Sign up today and make more money from your writing.

PromoBeats

Word Museum's monthly newsletter for published authors serious about promotion.

INSIDE EACH ISSUE:

• Two feature articles on promotion.

• An interview where you can learn the promotion secrets of a published author.

• Hot Promo Tips.

PromoBeats Newsletter is available for $6.99 per year (that's less than 60¢ a month).

FundsforWriters Annual Essay Contest

Theme: Your Hurdle, Your Success. 500-1000 words in essay form. Deadline October 31, 2004. Two categories open to applicants. $5 entry fee makes entrant eligible for the $100 first prize. No entry fee makes entrant eligible for the $50 first prize. Second prize is a $25 gift certificate at CoolStuff4Writers.com and third prize is a TOTAL FundsforWriters subscription valued at $12. Each category has a second and a third prize. First and second place winners posted on the FundsforWriters website beginning December 1, 2004.

gritLIT

Hamilton's Writers' Festival is challenging Canadian writers to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and enter our  short story contest. Winning stories will be read at the November 2004 gritLIT Writers Festival, and posted on our website. You must be a Canadian resident and 18 years of age or older to enter. Maximum length: 3,500 words. Judges are the gritLIT organizing committee, with final judges to be announced. Closing date is October 1, 2004. Winners will be contacted and posted on our website. Go to website for contest rules and regulations.  Send submissions with entry fee to: GritLit Short Story Contest, 162 Homewood Avenue, Hamilton, Ontario, L8P 2M5

Brady Magazine - Putting Writers on the Map

Brady Magazine is an online writer's trade magazine, dedicated to putting writers on the map. Not only do we publish a bi-monthly e-zine packaged with industry information, we also provide many services to personally help writers succeed. Visit our website for more details.

Worldwide Freelance Writer

Freelance markets from all over the world.

The Artist Tree

Exposed Within
by Teri Marcotte

The brave face you see lies
Beneath thick camouflage,

Hiding the charlatan quivering within,

Afraid to be truthfully exposed,

Unworthy of your sight

The confidence and beauty

That captivates your attention

Imprisons the trembling mass,

Bound tightly by a toughened exterior

Which gradually wears away

I conceal these chinks and cracks

Covered with quick wit and kindness

Comfort and reason extended,

Masking my reality with your troubles

So I needn't confront my own

I have all the answers for your questions

But, who can solve me?  

WebGrrrls WebRing

The WebGrrrls Webring has pages made and maintained by grrrls--websmart women and girls who know there's more to life than romance and fashion.

Contests 

If you're really comfortable writing erotica then maybe you're up for some stiff competition. Two of these contests close within the month, so you better stop messing around and start writing!

Desdmona.com Bedtime Flash Contest - Seeks to promote erotic literature through the Internet. Accepts unpublished stories only. 

Deadline: November 1, 2004
Length: 1,000 words or less

Entry Fee: None

Limit: Two (2) entries per person
Prizes: First prize $200, Second prize $100, Third prize $50

Romance Us Writing Contest - Hosted by A Hint of Seduction and Vintage Romance Publishing. Stories must be set in the time period 1900-1960. Three winners chosen through three rounds of judging.

Deadline: October 1, 2004
Length: Novellas 10,000 to 25,000 or Novels 35,000 to 75,000
Categories: Published and unpublished writers
Entry Fee: None
Prizes: Grand prize winner in each category wins a publishing contract with Vintage Romance Publishing

Clean Sheets "Sex & Politics" Contest - It's an election year in the United States, so why not? Seeking stories of "fictional erotic political fantasy."

Deadline: September 18, 2004

Length: 2,000 words or less
Entry Fee: None
Prize: First Prize $100, Second Prize $50, Third Prize $25

What's it all worth? Check out The Universal Currency Converter.

Book Review 

What's Wrong with Dorfman? by John Blumenthal
Reviewed by Betty Dobson

Every once in a while, you pick up a book that you simply can't put down. John Blumenthal's What's Wrong with Dorfman? is just such a book.

The first line grabs you. The rest of the lines make you grab back. You can't wait to learn more about Martin Dorfman. What you discover is a fascinating character built on flaws and propelled by doubts. 

Martin's a hypochondriac and, naturally, nearly everyone knows it but him. He does get to balance the scales a bit. His offbeat comments hit the mark every time--if only with the readers. The other characters in his world can't quite tune into his way of thinking, with one exception.

Delilah Foster understands him like no one else. She's just as sick as he is; there's nothing physically wrong with her, either. Compared to her, however, Martin's a raging optimist.

It seems appropriate that Martin is a screenwriter. With each new character, I find myself casting the movie version of this engaging novel. When I "read" Martin Dorfman and Delilah Foster, I "see" Ben Stiller and Janeane Garofalo. Martin's wife starts looking like Uma Thurman and his parents like Judd Hirsch and Olympia Dukakis.

But don't wait for the movie. Read the book. Today.

Then go stand in line for the movie--it ought to be terrific.

Pencil Point Rating (five pencils being best)

Online Resources 

Bad luck comes in threes. So do themes. 

If you're not sure you're ready to tackle erotic writing, you might want to visit the following sites to pick up a few tips and tricks.

Katy Terrega's Resources for Sex Writers - A free newsletter delivered to your inbox every two weeks. Includes articles, market news and listings, and more.

Erotica Readers & Writers Association - This stylish site includes resources, markets, a monthly newsletter, and an e-mail discussion list.

Eros Workshop - Mary Anne Mohanraj's erotica writers' workshop at YahooGroups. The list archives are accessible by members only.

Literary Lapse 

Literary Lapse is a prompt-based mailing list. Members receive weekly writing prompts and are encouraged to share their work with the rest of the list and give each other feedback.

Once a month, I select my favourite story, essay or poem for publication and pay the winner $5 (US funds).

The Prompt

Compose a piece that uses all the words on the list:

• cockleshell

• emasculate

• horned toad

• mind

• scute

• tsunami

The Winner

Congratulations to Linda Hamilton of Arkansas for her entertaining fable, "A Tale of Old."

 A Tale of Old
by Linda Hamilton

"You must always mind the Great Gods," the Horned Toad instructed his charges from atop a large scute. The aged toad distracted by a scuffle below him grew silent. His tongued lashed out smacking Rock Spider and Blues Beetle in the head. "And pay attention to the lessons of elders."

"Ouch," they cried in unison. "Why should we be bothered with these old tales? They are only stories meant to scare little ones and we are not babies." Rock Spider and Blues Beetle folded their arms across their chests and dared anyone to say otherwise.

The Horned Toad hissed. He puffed his spiny body to tower above them. "Be quiet before the Great Gods hear your blasphemy and release the monster, Anger, upon us again."

Rock Spider and Blues Beetle cowered and shivered before his massive display. They looked at each other and whispered in fear, "Again? There really is a monster?"

Spent, the Horned Toad flattened himself against the scute. "Yes, unleashed many generations ago."

"What happened?" they squeaked lest the monster hear the ring of their words on the wind.

The Horned Toad's eyes dulled with recollection and his voice softened. "Once, we let pride and arrogance turn us from the ways of the Great Gods. We boasted we were the masters and controlled our destinies. The Great Gods, patient in their rule, believed this to be a phase their children would outgrow. They encouraged the elders to preach the golden lessons louder. Surely, the children must see the road lay straight and narrow."

Rock Spider and Blues Beetle sat hinged on his every word. Their eyes shone like small moons in the night.

Horned Toad shook his head from side to side. "Alas, it was not to be. We became ever bolder in our actions determined to bend others to our will. With heavy hearts, the Great Gods released the monster's bonds. Anger called upon the winds to raise the tsunami and, astride his cockleshell, he descended on the land, trampling the prideful under his bow. The demonic warrior's hands slashing to emasculate the arrogant."

"But, we're still here. How did we survive?" their voices toned with awe.

"The elders beseeched the Great Gods for mercy. We vowed tolerance, balance, and charity for all things. Take only what we needed to survive and be content with our place in the chain of life. The Great Gods captured Anger and returned the monster to his eternal bonds."

Silence followed the Horned Toad's words. Rock Spider and Blues Beetle chewed on the tale's meaning. They looked at the wizened toad in confusion.

The Horned Toad chuckled, knowing his words had taken root in their minds. "Pride goeth before the fall, my sons."

Bragging Rights

This is the space where subscribers get to do a little bragging about their own writing successes. Don't be shy. We want to hear from you.

If you can submit the following in your newsletter, I would be thrilled:

The MuseItUp Club is an online critique group made up of several genre groups, each group consisting no more than five members. Most groups are filled to capacity, but there is still room for the following genres:

• Mystery

• Adult Fiction

• Children's writing

I am also seeking moderators.

For more info, check out the website, or contact Lea.

Lea Schizas

• Blue Language--SEXUAL CONTENT--40 page chapbook--poetry & prose stenciled cover art--signed limited edition.
• Disgusting Similarities--40 page chapbook of poetry & prose poems--stenciled cover art--signed limited edition. 
• Big City Savvy--40 page poetry chapbook written in some great world cities--Hong Kong, Tokyo, Taipei, Mexico City, Amsterdam--serigraph cover--limited edition.

More Marie Kazalia books coming soon from Red Hand Press.

• Heat of My Dreams--40 pages--chapbook of dream poetry & prose--hand painted stenciled cover art--signed & numbered limited edition.
• Role Reversals--40 pages of poetry & prose poems--serigraph a.k.a. silk-screened cover art--signed & numbered limited edition.
• No Woman As Object--40 pages of poetry & prose poems--serigraph a.k.a. silk-screened cover art--signed & numbered limited edition.

All books $8 plus $2 S&H. Email for more information.

Marie Kazalia 
Red Hand Press
PO Box 422344 
San Francisco CA 94142-2344 
(415) 447-7334

Want to share your latest writing successes?

Letters to the Editor

This is your chance to provide feedback on the newsletter. Tell us what you did and didn't like. Make suggestions for future issues. 

We want to hear from you.

InkSpotter News

subscriber list

covers more than

200 writers

in

Australia
Canada

Finland

France

India

South Africa

United Kingdom

United States

I am ecstatic that you enjoyed the little characters [in "A Tale of Old"] and honored by the selection. Your word prompts on Literary Lapse are inspiring. I look forward to their unveiling each week. 

Regards,
Linda Hamilton

"Be careful what you wish for." That's way too clichéd for a writer to accept.

Maybe, but there's a reason why it became a cliché. I had my own version earlier this year. (My wish was granted but not at all in the way I had anticipated.)

Sorry to hear about the rough spots, but you certainly are taking the right attitude. With any luck, the home-owning expenses will settle down, and you are building equity--and enjoying your home, I hope. All jobs are frustrating sometimes. Again, hope this is a temporary bump and that soon you'll be experiencing the "dreamier" part of the job.

Hope to have something for bragging rights next time.

Mary Gray

Editor's Note: I suppose it's a good thing when one of your subscribers quotes your own words back at you.  ;-)

Oh yeah. You did a job on [the August issue]. Glad you wanted me along.

Bill Rieser

What did you think of this month's issue?