InkSpotter News

ISSN 1715-1015

Information and Support for Creative Writers

 Published by InkSpotter Publishing

Volume 3.06                June 2005

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In This Issue

Editorial

Bookmarks

Feature Article

Help Wanted

Paying Markets

Pen & Ink

Contests

Literary Lapse

Bragging Rights

Book Reviews

Interview

Online Resources

Write Advice

Letters to the Editor

Editorial

On the Grow

As you may have notice by the table of contents above, InkSpotter News just keeps on growing. The missing columns are back for a visit under my pen one last time prior to the debut of new columnists next month, and the "Write Advice" gets off to a fine start this month with a piece by guest writer Roy A Barnes.

"Write Advice" is your chance to share the secrets of your writing success with other writers--in 500 words or fewer. This isn't just an expanded version of "Bragging Rights." Tell us how you landed that first time contract or connected with a long-term client. Maybe what worked for you will work for some of us.

Carolyn Howard-Johnson is back this month on Book Reviews--and she's joined by our newest ongoing contributor, Constance M. Gotsch.

I also want to point out that the deadline for this year's Finding the Right Words Flash Fiction Contest is coming up soon--July 21st. Don't miss out on your shot at one of the prizes.

July also marks the debut of our newest publication. Heritage Writer is available by paid subscription only. It's also a paying market, so be sure to check out the guidelines.

With all this going on, what can we possibly do for an encore? 

Next month, I'll try getting the newsletter out on time!

Betty Dobson, Publisher/Editor

PS: By the way, we're this close to picking up our 300th subscriber!

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.

• "McLellan sees challenges for HRM in 'connecting the dots' "

• "Money in Words"

• "Artist Kim left home to find the country, passion of her choice"

Back to Top 

Feature Article  

Getting It Right
by William Alan Rieser

It is essential for non-fiction writers to be as accurate with the facts of a story as you are with revision, punctuation, spelling, and sentence structure. There can be no excuse for publishing wrong or misleading information, just as there can be no defence for permitting false data to see the light of day through your pen or keyboard. Doing so is akin to receiving a contempt citation from court justice. It is also a contemptible way to treat your readers, who depend upon your honesty and ability to discover and disseminate the truth.

The fiction writer, though clearly distinguished from the non-fiction enthusiast, is equally responsible for presenting the audience with verified facts as needed to sustain the more imaginative and artistically created fantasies of the tale. Often, the innovated idea is based upon real fact and must be thoroughly researched and understood before attempting to seduce the audience with clever but non-existent possibilities.

Whether you're writing a novel, short story, essay, or screenplay, good research is often critical and decisive in terms of stating or reinforcing one’s premise or key ideas. For terminology, I find the Oxford dictionary invaluable and irreplaceable. It presents a much more thorough and comprehensive lineage of word roots in languages such as Greek, Cyrillic, French, Latin, Spanish, German, and Russian than other compendiums. Webster’s, in comparison, is simply awful, incredibly less accurate with some questionable interpretations and definitions. A concise version of Oxford is available almost everywhere and not too expensive.

There are times, however, when I do not wish to reach for the heavy tome above. Since I use Word Perfect--vastly superior to Word as to ease of use--I often employ Tools such as Thesaurus and Spell-check, even Grammar-check, when refining a manuscript revision. As an example, I once wrote a contrived story about the survival of an air fern (a bromeliad species of epiphyte) and found it necessary to learn the plant’s nomenclature, physical properties, unusual characteristics, and means of life support. Most of this was available via the use of the resources mentioned above, but not all.

Of course, there are millions, nay trillions of information items about which dictionaries do not allude. To expand the search, I used to consult encyclopaedias like Britannica and several other specialized volumes. Today, though similar resources are available online, most of the data can be found with Internet search engines like google.com. If I need to know what a whooping crane looks like, its mating peculiarities and eating preferences, I simply type "whooping crane" in Google’s description template and await multiple sources to narrow my quest, then print them all out, including wanted images.  It’s very practical and useful, this information superhighway, and it is constantly being upgraded with new or missing data.

Certainly there are exceptional instances where the facts required are not so easily obtained. The locations and types of companies throughout the world, with correct addresses, are available via the Thomas Register, now being digitized. Obviously, the digital Yellow Pages can also be used, though restricted to personal names and company titles. Maps, once extremely volatile items when it came to precision, are now available online with engines such as MapQuest--a matter of searching for seconds. We no longer need newspapers to tell us the latest about anything currently happening like politics, disasters, military concerns, weather, and hundreds of other things. All of it is online, the precursor to totally eliminating the potential need for printed products. After all, whole novels can be sent to any location in the world over the telephone line in fractions of the time it once took. Essays about important current events by well-respected columnists are made easily available for downloading and printing.

The correct delineation of hardware, its precise dimensions and uses, was once relegated only to mechanical engineering textbooks and manufacturing promotional literature. This, too, is now available online in many ways, though you need to have a good idea what you are looking for. I once needed some custom-designed screws to solve a construction problem but did not know the special name assigned to it by any manufacturer. It took me five days to nail the description, its available material hardness, thread types, and driver heads to order the beasts. Today, I can go to Google and type in "undercut screw", consult dozens of sources, and have the answers to my probe in minutes. You can decide for yourself if this is progress.

The entire analog world is rapidly being converted to digital. Analog watches with rotating hour, minute, and second hands have been replaced by number displays, coloured LEDs, or black-on-grey liquid crystal varieties timed to mainframe computers at scientific institutions that guarantee accuracy. For authors, it is extremely useful to have these search engines freely available. At any point in a story, when I evaluate a term and realize that additional information will improve the believability of what I am writing, a simple series of mouse clicks will take me online to find a solution rapidly. There was a time when research assistants were used by hundreds of thousands of companies to conduct exhaustive investigations about things we now take for granted because they are easily within everyone’s reach. Sooner or later, all the resources will be converted digitally in a simple format for online representation: every manufactured product and its varieties, every part used in the design matrix, every reason for designing it and the procedures used to guarantee success, every critical test about the item involving safety, performance and shelf life, and each assembly diagram, blueprint and schematic.

Despite this revolution in thinking and application, I have found some resources still best consulted in book form. This is usually an issue involving copyrights and public domain information. Nevertheless, until the matter is resolved, I will continue to use my printed resources because the Internet is, at this moment, clearly sub par.

For how to present any manuscript to a publisher in correct format, The Chicago Manual of Style, 14^th edition, published by The University of Chicago Press, is the way to go. In addition, although online search engines present numerous word translation software packages in assorted languages, there are as yet no qualified substitutes for those kind of dictionaries. I keep French, Latin, Spanish, and German volumes nearby, just in case.

My writing often makes use of quotations, well known or otherwise. Though these are also available via search engines, I have found them unreliable as to exactitude of translation and date-of-origin assignments. There are many printed sources of quotations in bookstores, but the best ones in my opinion are Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations, published by Little Brown, and the International Thesaurus of Quotations by Harper Collins--both unimpeachable, impeccably researched and presented volumes.

Sometimes, a point of grammar is forgotten and must be reinforced by a reliable source, especially style, effective writing techniques, and structure. There are so many old restrictions about these items, and a clear lack of adherence by the publishing industry, that knowledgeable guides become necessary. I use Essentials of English by Hopper, Gale, Foote, and Griffith, 4^th edition, published by Barron’s.  In addition, The Elements of Style by William Strunk Jr. and E. B. White, 3^rd edition, published by Allyn and Bacon, continues to be a powerhouse resource.

Some source material, like those involving myths, legends, inventions, histories, and specific individuals, are yet to be authoritatively established. In such cases, I combine my research with recommended books and Internet to get the best of both worlds. Almost everything else, and I do mean everything, can be had for free online.

There are rumours afloat that this condition--free access to information--may succumb to exploitation, the same thing I’ve heard discussed about e-mail. I suppose it could happen. Greed has no limitations. Of course, there will always be arrays of secrets, industrial, military, medicinal, political and what have you, and governments will make great efforts to prevent our accessing them. Be that as it may, we appear to know more today than ever before, in spite of educational trends. While we await such manipulations and conspiracies, revel in what you now enjoy, for the superhighway is clogged and adding ever more tiers, just like the tower of Babylon as Nimrod quested to reach for the gods.

He didn’t get it right, but then, he wasn’t a researcher.     

#

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.

The quest continues to hire writers to handle the following monthly columns:

• Paying Markets

• Contests

• Online Resources

My apologies to everyone for the ongoing delay caused by my recent difficulties with Microsoft Outlook (hereinafter banished from any further appearances on my computer).

If you applied for any or all of these positions and haven't already resubmitted your application, please do so by June 15. The new columnists will be chosen the following week and will debut in the July issue.

In the interim, I will take one last kick at column can--and do a little shameless self promotion along the way.

Paying Markets

This is an abbreviated column this month, focussing on my own publications--and yes, I do pay for certain submissions.

Deadline: 1st of each month

Address: 

Heritage Writer

c/o InkSpotter Publishing

163 Main Avenue

Halifax, Nova Scotia

Canada B3M 1B3

Email: heritagewriter@inkspotter.com

Length: 500 words or fewer

Rights: First Canadian Rights

Pays: $10 on publication

Reading Period: 20th of each month

Address: 

InkSpotter News

c/o InkSpotter Publishing

163 Main Avenue

Halifax, Nova Scotia

Canada B3M 1B3

Email: submissions@inkspotter.com

Length: 500 words or fewer

Rights: First Canadian Rights

Pays: $10

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.

Moral Soap

by Ardena V. Mrasic

One more digit for infinity

We're just numbers these days
Blank faced individuals
Tripping through social haze
 
Earth's splashed with dim colour

All blacks and purples and greys
Rags or riches, it hardly matters
Unless you've something to say
 
Golden rule fades to yellow

Do we even care?
Slanderous things we speak
Almost too much to bear
 
I wonder if this is sanity

Or some sad substitute for hope
In a world where minds are dirty
Can we find some moral soap?

Gypsy

by Rebecca Adkins

Rachel's hair hung several inches below her shoulders, wispy, strawberry-blond strands that were parted down the middle and snagged behind both ears to keep it out of her eyes. She held a bag of sugar in one hand and a tub of margarine in the other, while cradling a carton of milk in the crook of her arm. Rubbing a dirty, bare foot across the top of the other, she waited in line at the checkout lane of Boyd's Market.

Today was Saturday, and mama was going to bake cookies, the warm melt-in-your-mouth sugary ones that Rachel loved. It was mama's day off work, "the girl's special day" she called it, and as soon as they finished cleaning the house and baking cookies they were going to pack a picnic lunch, put baby Angela in her stroller and go to the park.

Angela wasn't really a baby--Rachel knew that--but her two-year-old sister still hadn't learned to walk, and she was like a baby, a big, sweet, happy baby. Mama said she was special, a precious gift from God, and that they were lucky indeed that God had trusted them to care for such a loving child.

Daddy hadn't agreed. After Angie was born, he told mama that there was something terribly wrong with her. "Look how she stares at the lights, and she never cries like babies are supposed to. I'm telling you, Marie, she's not right." And later, when she should have begun to crawl, but didn't, daddy started talking about putting Angela in a home, something Rachel couldn't understand because they already had a home. But whatever daddy meant, it sure upset mama.

Rachel watched the pear-shaped woman in the lime-green stretch pants push her cart forward another foot, and she absently followed. She wanted to stop the direction her thoughts were taking, but the painful memories were like a chipped tooth that chronically entices the tongue to probe its sharp edge. If she could only forget the night that had changed their lives.

It began like any other night. Mama had tucked her into bed after reading a tale from the worn volume of fairy tales by Hans Christian Anderson. Not long after mama had turned the light out and quietly closed the door, Rachel closed her eyes, fanciful images of princes, ogres and wicked queens flitting among her thoughts. Drifting into the twilight of sleep, she was jerked back sharply by the angry tones of her parents' voices. They were having another argument, and though Rachel couldn't make out their words, she knew it was something about Angie again. Hating their fights, she pulled the covers over her head to drown out the sounds. But daddy started yelling and nothing could have stopped her from hearing, not the closed door to her bedroom or the blanket over her head.

"Either she goes, or I go! Make up your mind, Marie."

"How can you say that, Gene? She's our child."

"Your child, not mine. My family never produced an idiot!" Doors slamming, then silence.

"Look at the gypsy, mommy," a childish voice piped up loudly from further back in the line.

Rachel turned her head to look, her thoughts diverted from where they were leading. She had never seen a gypsy before. In fact, she wasn't exactly sure what a gypsy was, but it sounded interesting, in the same way that the no-legged man who pushed himself around on a board with roller-skate wheels attached to the bottom was interesting. Her eyes took in the people around her. Where was the gypsy?

She looked up at the old woman right behind her, a halo of blue-grey curls framing a face with a permanent frown. A frown is just a smile turned upside down. That was something mama said sometimes. When the woman's bright little eyes met hers, she smiled and watched the deep wrinkles shift on the woman's face, an extraordinary transformation from ugly to kindly that made Rachel's smile broaden. People should smile more often; it made them look so much nicer. Her gaze wandered further down the line. There was a man in a suit fine enough to wear to church, but today wasn't Sunday. Maybe he was going to a wedding. She would have smiled at him, but he wasn't looking her way. She still didn't see the gypsy.

Her attention flitted back to the announcer of the wondrous gypsy. A pair of blue eyes briefly met hers before darting away, and a giggle was covered with a small delicate hand. The mother leaned down to the pretty child and whispered something. Rachel could imagine what the whispered words were. "It's not nice to stare." Hadn't her own mother said the same to her when she had gazed with wide-eyed intrigue at the jewel-bedecked man whose blue-tipped, black hair stood straight up in long spikes?

As embarrassed warmth crept up Rachel's face, her eyes dropped to inspect the floor. Did the little girl think she was a gypsy? Was that a bad thing? She examined her bare feet. Maybe mama had been right when she said that Rachel should put her shoes on before going to the store. "You don't want people to think we're too poor to afford shoes, do you?" But Rachel had laughed at that and twirled around in front of her mother, causing the full pink skirt with ruffled hem to float about her. Poor people didn't have beautiful skirts like the one she was wearing, which is what she had told mama when making her case for going barefooted. It must have been a good argument, because mama had laughed with her, shaking her head in resignation.

Rachel had just gotten the skirt yesterday. She had picked it out herself from one of the racks at the Salvation Army. It wasn't even used! Still bearing the price tag from the Mayfair Department store, it had been donated to the Salvation Army because it was a second. Mama had explained it to her. A second was just as good as a first, but it might have a tiny flaw in the seam somewhere and that wasn't good enough for the kind of people that shopped at the Mayfair. Rachel had puzzled about that for a while because who in their right mind would wear a skirt inside out so as someone might notice that one of the seams had an extra row of stitching?

The queue had moved forward and Rachel adjusted the carton of milk that was beginning to slip before moving ahead. Maybe that was it. Perhaps gypsies were people who had pretty clothes. Her face brightened noticeably with that thought. She was glad she was wearing the bright red shirt with the little blue flowers on it because, even though mama said the red shirt clashed with the pink skirt, she thought red and pink was a lovely combination. The little girl at the back of the line must have thought so, too. And she wasn't really laughing at her, she was just shy because Rachel had caught her staring. Rachel understood that feeling well. Although she was perfectly comfortable among adults, around children her own age she felt a little unsure of herself.

It hadn't always been that way, just since daddy left. Karen, who used to sit next to her in Sunday School, had asked why he never came to church with them anymore, and she hadn't known what to say. Eventually Karen stopped sitting by her and Rachel felt a wall of separateness begin to grow around her. Although Karen's parents were divorced, and some of the other kids at school had divorced parents, too, Rachel knew she was different. She knew what divorced was. It was when your mom and dad lived in two different houses and you stayed at mom's house most of the time, and you went to visit your dad on weekends and some of the holidays. But she didn't know anyone whose dad had divorced the whole family. She felt marked by abandonment, believed something must be wrong with her to make her daddy never want to see her again. What did she do? Even though mama told her that it wasn't anything she had done, that it was something wrong inside of daddy, Rachel had a hard time believing it.

She toyed with the idea of looking back at the pretty girl, to give her a reassuring smile, but couldn't bring herself to actually do it. What if the girl had been laughing at her; what if a gypsy was something shameful? Mama could tell her, but Rachel wasn't sure she wanted to know.

She was still debating whether or not to ask her mother about gypsies when it was her turn at the check-out counter. She relieved her arms of their burden and smiled up at the red-haired clerk.

"Did you find everything you were looking for?" The clerk returned her smile.

"Yep. That's all we need today. Mama's going to make cookies." Rachel's grin broadened in anticipation.

"That sounds wonderful." The clerk's eyes softened, the friendly smile still on her face, and Rachel felt better. A gypsy must not be too awfully bad because the lady behind the register wasn't looking at her like she had two heads or something equally strange, like Cyclops' one big eye.

"That will be five seventy-nine."

Rachel reached into her shirt pocket and took out the ten dollar bill her mother had given her and handed it to the clerk.

"Enjoy the cookies," the clerk said, handing back the change.

Rachel stuffed the bills and coins in her pocket. "Thank you." She picked up the paper bag and with a light step went out into the morning sun.

Gypsy, gypsy, gypsy. The word danced about in her head. It had a pretty, song-like sound. Hugging the grocery bag tight to her chest, she skipped down the sidewalk in time to the musical word. Gypsy, gypsy, gypsy.

At the corner, she waited for the light to turn green, her eyes on the "DON'T WALK" sign. Did that mean she should run across the street instead of walking? She giggled at her own silliness, but when the sign changed to "WALK" she continued with her private game and walked briskly across the street without breaking into a trot. Gypsy, gypsy, gypsy.

She turned onto the side street that was lined with rows of apartment buildings, one nearly the same as the next. Their apartment was in the complex at the end of the block. They used to live in a house, but mama said it was too expensive to stay there after daddy left. At that thought the spring left her step but halfway down the street it returned. Gypsy, gypsy, gypsy.

She skipped in time with it the rest of the way home, cutting across the grassy plot between their apartment and the sidewalk. After the hard warmth of the concrete, the grass felt cool and soft beneath her feet. It was for the pleasure of these little things that she enjoyed going without shoes. Mama kept telling her that one of these days she was going to step on something sharp and cut herself, but Rachel prided herself on the fact that it had never happened, which she often pointed out. Mama told her that she must have eyes on the bottoms of her feet.

"Hi, Mrs. Peterson," she said to their next-door neighbour, who was busy trimming a potted rosebush that sat outside her front door.

Mrs. Peterson lived all alone. Mama said she was a widow, which meant that her husband had died. Rachel didn't know any dead people, but dead was almost the same as gone, and her daddy was gone so she knew how Mrs. Peterson must feel. Sometimes Mrs. Peterson talked about her children and at first Rachel had thought she meant little children like herself. Once she asked her mother where Mrs. Peterson's children were, because she'd never seen them around. Mama explained that Mrs. Peterson's children were all grown up, and that it was sad that they didn't come to visit once in a while.

Mrs. Peterson looked up from her task. "Good morning, Rachel. How are you today?"

"I'm fine. Guess what?"

"What, dear?"

"We're going to make cookies and go to the park today. I'll bring you some cookies when they're done, okay?"

"Why thank you, Rachel. That's very kind of you. Would you like a rose?" She cut back a leafy stem that was sticking out farther than the rest, a full pink rose adorning the top. "Be careful of the thorns."

Rachel shifted the grocery sack into one arm and gingerly accepted the flower, burying her nose among the velvety petals. "Mmmm," she sighed. "It smells beautiful."

With both hands full, she took the few steps to her own door and pressed the buzzer with her elbow.

Her mother let her in and reached for the grocery sack. "What a pretty rose. Let's put it in a glass of water."

"Mrs. Peterson gave it to me. I told her I would bring her some cookies when they're done, okay?"

"That was nice." Marie carried the bag into the kitchenette and Rachel followed, pausing beside her sister, who was sitting on the floor gazing up at the light fixture on the ceiling.

"Whatcha doing, Angie?"

The child turned her head and gave Rachel a toothy grin, responding with a gurgle. Rachel hunched down next to her sister and a chubby hand reached for the rose. Rachel drew it away. "It has thorns, Angie. It'll hurt you." She dropped a kiss on Angie's plump cheek then stood and joined her mother in the kitchen.

"Mama?"

"What, honey?" Marie opened a cabinet door and withdrew a glass tumbler. At the sink, she filled it with water and held it out to Rachel.

"What's a gypsy?" Placing the rose into the water, Rachel set the glass on the centre of the dinette table then turned to face her mother, an anxious frown marring her brow.

"Why? Do you think you saw one?"

"No, but I think a girl at Boyd's Market thought I was one."

"Well, maybe she thought that because you are wearing colourful clothes. Gypsies often dressed in bright, colourful clothing, you see."

"Really?" Rachel's frown melted into a delighted smile.

"Oh, yes! In the olden days, they travelled from town to town selling useful things to the townsfolk or sometimes held carnivals to brighten up the hard-working lives of farmers and such. But it was in the evenings when the real fun began." Marie moved to the end of the island that separated the kitchen from the living room. Angie had crawled over to the Jocko the Clown play-gym and was engrossed with Jocko's nose, a red, spinning ball.

Rachel's eyes followed her mother's and she smiled tenderly. Angie loved round things. Maybe that was why she stared at the lights. Did she see them as enchanted, glowing balls? She would have to tell mama about that idea later, but first . . . the gypsies. "What happened in the evenings?"

"In the evenings, when dinner was done and the sun began to set, the gypsies sat around a big campfire and told stories to the children. Then, someone would bring out a guitar or a flute and start playing a tune. Pretty soon a beautiful gypsy girl would get up and begin to dance in the firelight. With her long hair flying and her bright pink skirt swishing around her tanned legs, she did a joyous dance, twirling and swaying to the happy melody. Well, the rest of them couldn't just sit and watch her, they had to join in. Before you knew it, everyone was dancing, and what a sight it was! Handsome men, dashing in their ruffled, silk shirts, and beautiful ladies dressed in flowing skirts the colours of rubies and emeralds and sapphires, all dancing around the fire under the silver moonlight. It was magical."

Entranced by her mother's tale, Rachel's eyes grew dreamy. She could just see it, could imagine herself as one of those beautiful, dancing gypsies. When her mother had finished, a slow smile spread across her face. Then, with youthful energy, she spun around and pranced into the living room. She scooped Angie up from the floor and held her tight as she twirled and sang, "Gypsies, gypsies, dancin' in the night. Gypsies, gypsies, in the bright moonlight. Gypsies, gypsies, dancin' 'round the fire. Gypsies, gypsies . . . Mama, what rhymes with fire?"

Sucketh Bigly

by Ardena V. Mrasic

Life's too short
The days too long
And no one seems
To get along

This song's too loud
I'm going mad
The news it seems
Is always bad

The river of time
It runs too fast
The music doesn't
Even last

My soul is shaken
Body is warm
Too much pressure
To conform

No one listens
Few even hear
From deception
Springs my fear

Hope is myth
Made to confuse
Freedom's a privilege
Too many abuse

The air is black
I cannot see
There is not peace
Nor harmony

One person's mind
Can start a war
Many die
But what's it for?

A mother's hand
Raised in rage
Comes down on a child
Of a tender age

I watch the world
In all its woes
Will it all end?
No one knows

So don't you dare ask me
What the hell's wrong
I don't want to reprise
This awful song

Contests 

Again, we're keeping this one short this month. One contest is mine, the other is run by subscriber Dotsie Bregel as part of her Boomer Women Speak site.

2005 Finding the Right Words Flash Fiction Contest - Tell a complete story in 500 words or fewer that addresses the theme "Second Chances." Read the guidelines carefully before entering.

Deadline: July 21, 2005

Length: 500 words or fewer

Entry Fee: $1

First Prize: $50 plus publication in InkSpotter News

Second Prize: $25 plus publication in InkSpotter News

Boomer Women Speak - Looking for stories about our bodies. Tell us how you have celebrated physical changes, examined inner beauty, and/or embraced your authentic self. Writing Guidelines are on the site.

Deadline: July 1, 2005
Length: 1,800 words or fewer

Prize: $25.00 gift certificate to your favourite book store

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

Literary Lapse

Literary Lapse (118 members) 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

M is for the many things...

Write about motherhood.

The Winner

Congratulations to Roy Greene for his moving story "A Deeper Shade of Blue."

A Deeper Shade of Blue

by Roy Greene

Throughout it all, I wanted to hold her, to let her know I was there, that we were in this together, that we were going to be all right, even if the baby wasn't. I longed to embrace her as I always had, but couldn't bring myself to touch the swell of her belly where our deformed child dwelled. That sense of connection we'd shared, which had grown along with her stomach, now seemed distant, abstract, false. Often I wondered if making love to her would bring that easy, loving comfort back again. But the very thought of being inside of her with that child chilled me to the core. Instead, I would rest a nervous hand against her smooth, lightly freckled back in what I hoped was a reassuring manner.

But it wasn't the same.

It would never be the same.

Ever since Sondra had begun to show, my arm would trace her sloping belly while we spooned at night. At times, I'd lie awake, hoping to feel our baby shift against my flesh, giving me some vague idea of what pregnancy was like for her. It made me feel less like a witness, a bystander. When I would feel a quiver or a kick beneath her taut skin, I would sometimes even imagine that it was my own swollen stomach I was holding, that the life we had created was growing within me. Except it wasn't life Sondra was swollen with, but disease.

Anencephaly. Dr. Fiedler had pointed at an area of the sonogram, explaining to us in his quietly mournful tone that this elaborate word meant there was no brain formation beyond the stem. The movements we'd felt were more autonomic than deliberate. Many such babies are stillborn. Those who aren't don't live long. Days. A week at the most.

I listened absently, staring at his thin finger, unable to make out whatever he'd seen wrong in that grainy image. All I saw were shadows and light. I couldn't even see anything resembling an infant.

"What are our options?" I hadn't even realized I'd spoken aloud until Sondra's hand jerked from mine. I felt the heat of her gaze upon me and turned to see her eyes blazing with hateful accusation. I shamefully looked back to Fiedler, but was much more aware of Sondra.

He told us that many couples opt for abortion, but it was a very personal choice.

"However," he added, "should you continue with the pregnancy, you might want to consider donating the baby's organs." Sondra walked out.

The ride home was silent. No talking. No crying. I couldn't even turn on the radio to fill in the void. It seemed somehow disrespectful. Like nothing was wrong. I reached out to take Sondra's hand, but she just stared out the side window, cradling her rounded stomach.

The silence between us wasn't broken until the next morning, as I was leaving for work. She had watched me with steady, disapproving eyes as I shaved and dressed and nibbled at half an English muffin which my stomach did little more than grumble at. But she said nothing until my hand reached for the doorknob. "How can you just leave like that?" she hissed from the rocking chair we'd bought for her and the baby. I asked her what she meant, but she simply glared at me. "Go!" she finally shouted.

I hesitated, wanting to plead with her to be reasonable, but the indignation in her face angered me and I knew it was best that I leave. It wouldn't matter to her that we still needed money. That those tests hadn't been free. That we still had a decision to make. I didn't fully understand her animosity until I went to lunch.  Noticing a pregnant woman at a nearby table, I realized that I'd momentarily forgotten about the baby, the deformity, the decision left to be made. Sondra had no such luxury. She carried our burden with her everywhere she went.

I tried to be more understanding, but she didn't make it easy. I kept telling myself that it was the stress of it all, but I know now that mostly what she was reacting to was me. I acted more pleasant, more compassionate, more concerned, but it was all veneer. There was no depth to it. And she recognized that before I did, I think. It was in the fact that I no longer held her belly as we slept. That I couldn't bring myself to look at her bulging stomach without guiltily turning away. That sex had become impossible for me.

I hated myself for hating the baby. For wanting it out of her so we could go on with our lives. But Sondra decided, with no discussion, to keep the baby. She wouldn't take the chance that the doctors were wrong about it. And, even if they weren't, then maybe some other infant could live if she donated his organs. That way he would live on.

It was a boy. She had finally asked Dr. Fiedler and casually told me over dinner. She probably thought that knowing its gender would make me love it or want it or at least understand her decision. It didn't. It only made me sadder. I couldn't finish eating. I went into the bathroom and cried so hard that I vomited what little I'd consumed. Even though she had to have heard me, Sondra never moved from the table to see about me. I really don't blame her.

The bleeding started three days later. I was called from a meeting and told that my wife had been rushed to the hospital. I hurried to meet her there, praying she was all right, wishing things had gone differently, and wondering if they could ever be the same again. My only thought about the baby was that I hoped it was finally over.

It was.

I had thought I'd be overjoyed to have our life back. To be able to put this all behind us. To try again. But all I could think about as I sat in a faded yellow Naugahyde chair at my wife's bedside was how she had stared into her plate of lasagne one night and said, "It's a boy", knowing it was a boy who would never grow up to play catch with me or learn to ride a bike or dream of being a contractor like his dad. It was a boy, but there was no point in painting his room blue because he was never going to see it.

I finally did hold her again the night she came home from the hospital. We both tried to sleep, without much success. Her back was to me and I studied those freckles draping her pale shoulders as they shook with her silent sobs. I moved closer to her, offering comfort and seeking some myself. My arm crossed the threshold and sought her belly, not exactly flat, but no longer rounded. It quivered with the quiet release of her tears. Or perhaps it was my arm trembling from my own. Either way, I was no longer an outsider to her experience. I no longer had to imagine what it was like for her. And, as her trembling hand lighted tentatively upon my wrist, I felt a connection not only to what was, but what could have been. The emptiness there beneath my arm, the void where there had so recently been some semblance of life, I found mirrored within me.

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.

Book Reviews 

Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life 

by Anne Lamott

Pantheon Books, 1994; Anchor Books, 1995

ISBN: 0-385-48001-6

Reviewed by Carolyn Howard-Johnson

My goodness! Who would have guessed that one slim little volume about writing could cause so much controversy in the few years since it has been published.

Take a moment to browse the reviews for Bird by Bird on Amazon and you'll see what I mean. I feel compelled to defend it.

Anne Lamott's National Bestseller does not promise a complete course in advanced writing. The subtitle says "Some Instructions on Writing and Life." What you see is what you get.

This book is a perfect introduction to writing for beginning writers just as, I suspect, LaMott's courses are. More advanced writers should get out their Hi-Liters and pay attention not so much to what she says but how she says it. It also wouldn't hurt to look at her self deprecating humour (I don't see where these readers are seeing all that self-absorption stuff--I truly don't!) and her honesty.

Could some of this be professional jealousy? This is a book that gives what it promises and more! And yes, some of the advice is similar to advice that has been given by others. Writers' books are sort of a genre of their own--in the vein of King's and others. A little memoir, a little humour, a little advice. How much new can be said about how to write anyway?

Those who already have this book in their library may want to go back and re-read it. I found that I saw different things in it after a few years honing my skills than I did when I first read it. Writers or wannabe writers should find this a savoury little book to be read a little at a time, bird by bird.

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ABOUT THE REVIEWER: Carolyn Howard-Johnson’s first novel, This is the Place, is the winner of eight awards. Her second, Harkening, won the Red Sky Press Award and two others. She admits to loving PR almost as much as writing, and her book The Frugal Book Promoter: How to Do What Your Publisher Won’t won USA Book News' "Best Professional Book 2004."

A Month of Sundays: Searching for the Spirit and My Sister 

by Julie Mars

GreyCore Press, 2005

ISBN: 0-974-20745-4

Reviewed by Constance M. Gotsch

In the preface of her newest book, A Month of Sundays: Searching for the Spirit and My Sister, Albuquerque, New Mexico author, Julie Mars says: "For seven months, I took care of my sister, Shirley, who was dying of pancreatic cancer...I witness her intense spiritual turbulence and her return to Catholicism...I consider it an honor and a privilege to be with her every day as she considers the state of her soul...As my sister's faith forms its final shape and hardens, mine disappears...When I return home to Albuquerque, I feel a driving need...to go to church."

So Mars does, for 31 Sundays, the equivalent of a month, visiting Christian, Sort-of-Christian, Jewish, Islamic, Unitarian, and non-sectarian places of worship.

Each visit triggers thoughts, feelings and remembrances of Shirley, their siblings and parents, and Shirley's children. Using simple, direct language, Mars interweaves her family's relationships, Shirley's advance toward death, and her own spiritual search for something she can call God into a microcosm of human experience.

A visit to the Church of the Latter Day Saints evokes this thought: "My father taught me, expected me, to be tough, to follow my own strong will, and not apologize for it. I did. But secretly, I locked myself in the closet and cried so hard I could not breathe. Waves of sadness washed over me, washing me away, and I was enormously bereft, lonely, scared of everything. That was when Shirley would whisper through the door that she wanted to come in. I would crawl into her lap and drink in her silence."

Describing this intimate moment, Mars states a universal truth. Independence can terrify. Everyone needs a safe person and a safe place. Everyone faces the moment when they must lose that security.

The combination of universal and personal experience in this and many other paragraphs in the book makes A Month of Sundays: Searching for the Spirit and My Sister a compelling, tender, and moving read.

So do Mars' frank descriptions of caring for a dying person, right to the moment Shirley becomes so weak she needs diapers, just before her "Final Dive," as Mars calls it, into delirium and coma. Mars' spiritual search and its climax add a final touch on the last page of the story.

A Month of Sundays is a thoughtful and moving book for anyone, but especially for those facing illness, death, loss, spiritual crisis, and grief. The story is not for the airport or the beach, but for a time to sit down, and think about life.

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ABOUT THE REVIEWER: Constance M. Gotsch is the author of two award-winning e-novels, A Mouth Full of Shell and Snap Me a Future, and has won numerous awards for articles, short fiction, and playwriting. She is also the program director for Public Radio Station KSJE, FM in Farmington, New Mexico.

Interview

This column will return next month.

Online Resources 

All of the following resources are new--or at least new to me. No particular theme here, but Canadian Arts Net and Linked In place a definite emphasis on the networking aspects of a writing career.

The Muse Marquee - A new column ezine sponsored by Star Publish. Offers new and seasoned writers the opportunity to enhance their writing skills with the help of ten prolific Editors, each and every month. The Muse Marquee is the brainchild of Lea Schizas, founder of the MuseitUp Club, an online critique community and a Writer's Digest 101 Best Writing Site of 2005. The debut issue in June is free to give everyone an opportunity to glimpse what The Muse Marquee will be all about.

Linked In - Networking goes hi-tech with this online community. Build your connections with people you know and trust--and the people they know and trust. Within an hour of joining, I reconnected with an "old friend" with numerous contacts. And all for the cost of...nothing.

Canadian Arts Net - Provides information and services to help members of the Canadian arts community with the business aspects of their lives. Free membership links you to The Artists Directory, Funding Databases, The Web Directory, The Arts Events Calendar, Newsletter, Forums, and more.

Write Advice  

Each month, a guest writer shares tips on succeeding in the writing business.

Let Your E-Mail Address Snag Some Paying Assignments
by Roy A. Barnes

One of the best decisions I ever made concerning my fledgling writing career occurred in late 2004. I made the decision to create a new e-mail address from which I would submit the brunt of my queries and finished works to editors, wherever online queries and submissions were allowed. When I began getting more serious about my freelance writing during the summer of 2004, I was submitting and querying from an e-mail address that could be best described as cute. I realized that I needed to create an e-mail address that would reflect what I was striving to do in my career. So I picked "travelwriteroy", because it alluded to the primary activities I was now engaging in to help pay the rent, utilities, and food bills; that is, travelling and then writing about those travels when I wasn't crafting poetry, personal experience essays, or articles on a variety of other subjects.

In December 2004, I submitted an article on constructive ways for writers to deal with rejection by editors to an online writing publication called The Fabulist Flash. Gregory Kompes, the editor, didn't wish to use my article in the near future, but he noticed my "travelwriteroy" e-mail address. He wanted to know if I was a travel writer, as he needed some articles on getting started in travel writing. Well, I had just received my first pay cheque ever as a freelancer for a travel article by Transitions Abroad on a piece I did about a unique volunteer holiday in Spain, which ultimately appeared in their March/April 2005 print edition, as well as online. In addition, I had previous work experience in the travel agency and airline industries, which afforded me several opportunities to be able to travel on four continents in my lifetime. I let Gregory know about my credentials, and he asked me to send him an article. It was accepted and published in the March 24, 2005 online issue of The Fabulist Flash.

Had it not been for my new e-mail address, I strongly suspect that Mr. Kompes wouldn't have even brought up the subject of travel writing when he passed on using my article about dealing with rejection. My e-mail address lets editors know that travel is a part of my writing forté, even if I am submitting a query or work that isn't travel related.

In addition to having a business-like e-mail to submit queries and finished works from, listing some of our publication credits in different categories other than the category we are submitting to or querying about may lead to some unexpected surprises. That's because an editor is going to know more about the scope of the work we do as writers. E-mail addresses and published clips can provide some free, indirect advertising that showcases a writer's abilities. Don't forgo those opportunities to, as my father used to say, "Brag about yourself." If you truly have done something, it isn't boasting!

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Roy A. Barnes is a freelance journalist who lives in Cheyenne, Wyoming. His work has been featured in mediums such as Transitions Abroad's March/April 2005 print and online editions as well as the writing-themed publication called The Fabulist Flash.

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.

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In this issue I particularly liked Chase Hartone's "Leitmotif." You'd think the story from the viewpoint of the newly deceased would have been done to death (err, sorry) by now, but this one managed to keep it light and move it right along. Uncle Josh was a hoot. Refreshing.

Mary Gray

I have to comment on "Leitmotif" by Chase Hartone. This was a terrific story! The final line, "Betsy to Heavens!" had me laughing aloud. Terrific work, Chase!

Thanks for a great issue Betty!

The new issue looks great, and my story looks good. Thanks. Good job getting the InkSpotter News out under difficult circumstances.

Krys Douglas

What did you think of this month's issue?