TANGLED SHEETS

During a writer's workshop I once attended, the attendees were given photograph prompts to write from. One of them intrigued me and I chose it to write a short fiction piece in first person point of view.

TANGLED SHEETS

I had one of those no-sleep-in (you can insert your own city here) nights. Not switching on the light, I crawled out of bed. I knew I was leaving a tangled mess of the sheets I had so carefully folded back early in the evening. Nights were like this often since the attack.

Experts contintually tell me I need to set a new routine at bedtime. Go to bed at ten after a nice warm soak in the tub with a cool glass of wine. Only one glass, not the entire bottle. Both should soothe me, comfort my inner angst, offer me a relaxed approach to the dark of my bedroom. It hasn't helped.

Someone else told me maybe I should leave a small light on and play soft music. At first, the light seemed like a good idea; it dispelled the darkness I had found engulfing me that night. It also created shadows on the wall, the ceiling, among the corners--all of which caused my heart to pound so loud I couldn't have even closed my eyes much less found sleep. And the music, even my favorite soft oldies stuff, covered up the chance that I might miss--as I had on that night--the jimmying of a lock or footsteps down a hall.

When I rose from my bed each night, I left the light off. I crept through the darkness through the unfamiliar rooms, dodging furniture shapes in a new arrangement. Slipping a finger between the blinds I peered out on the street from four stories up, needing to know if anyone lurked below. I didn't dare open the refrigerator for fear the light would give my position in my own home away. The fact that I had moved, left a home and an area that was ingrained in my soul, made no difference to my head. There was no safe place to my way of thinking.

So--I wandered around the fortress I had created for myself--rechecked the alarm system, putting my ear to the steel door leading into a well-lit public hallway, listening for any sound out of the ordinary, if I knew what that was anymore. Somewhat assured, I found my favorite chair, curled up in it, hugged myself tightly, and breathed deeply until I could force myself back to that bed--the bed with new soft, pink sheets and a large pillow to hug closely for added protection.

If I didn't turn on the light, I couldn't see the damage restlessness had done to the bed. But I was sure, well, hopefully assured, that when I once more am able to sleep and wake in a refreshed state, I won't find a knife-wielding stranger standing beside me, or see my own blood when I look in the mirror, flowing from wounds I am accussed of causing myself because I screamed and fought back. And those tangled sheets won't look the same as they had that night.

One day, or some night, I will have the freedom to accept peace, comfort, and that wonderful sleep.

CRACKLING PLOT OF MIND-BENDING COMPLEXITY

Reader, you have got to read this book. It is fascinating book (which followed an equally great one, "River of Bones." Let me give you a little review of this thriller (can find it at Amazon), and be sure to got to Mary Deal's website: www.WriteAnyGenre.com, too.

DOWN TO THE NEEDLE (ISBN 978-1-4401-9820-5)
By Mary Deal

Five-year-old Becky went missing 23 years ago. Abigail Fisher has never stopped looking, nor given up hope, that one day she will find her daughter. When clues lead her to Megan Winnaker, a young woman soon to be put to death for setting fires that killed people, Abi and her friend, Joe Arno, begin a dangerous, twisted journey seeking the truth.

Even with Megan jailed, the fires continue. Detective Britto believes there are extremist groups involved and joins forces with Abi and Joe to follow the clues. The more Abi learns about the prisoner, the more see-saw emotions rise, causing her heart problems to send her into a tail spin. Were Megan and her daughter members of a gang, followers of a supremacy group? Did the scar on Megan's face cover removal of a tell-tale mold? Why did her artwork duplicate Becky's? If she isn't Becky, how can she know the nick-name Abi gave her daughter? What part does her kidnaper ex-husband Preston play in this scene? And how can they save this woman even Detective Britto believes is innocent?

When birth certificates for both Preston and Becky are found in the bottom of a decorative box hidden among Megan's deceased father's memorabilia, Abi is sure she has finally found her daughter? Or has she?

Mary Deal, award winning author, has created a multi-layered, pitch-perfect story which propels you into a stunning race of hide-and-seek. Down to the Needle offers a crackling plot of mind-bending complexity. This book will keep readers busy grasping for bits and pieces they hope will hold the key to the mystery, right up until Deal delivers the perfect ending.

If you read only one book this summer, make it this one.

LOVE OR MARKETS ONLY

I've been trying to step away from writing only fiction and have been drafting some articles to submit—who knows where at this time. I know I should study the market first, right, but in order to get back into the nonfiction groove, I have simply been writing. But there will come that time when I must study the market in order to place my work.

That brings up the age-old question: what comes first, your love for writing, or a market to sell it to? Some writers will tell you they only write for their personal pleasure and what they want to read. Still others say that doing such a thing is a waste of time. What if you can’t find a market for your work? What if the audience you thought was out there for your work, isn’t? What if no editor today wants to publish what you love to write? Hard as it may be to acknowledge, we all have to write to the market if we want to be published in today’s writing world.

That means we have to know our market. We have to read and research those magazines or publishers we want to accept our work. What interests us may not be anything like the topics editors find unique. And that is a word (UNIQUE) we have to listen to. Today what we submit must be different, off the beaten path of the same old information recycled, a topic covered thoroughly that will give the readers information they don’t get in their daily lives.

Researching your market means knowing what the editor/publisher will print. Write a good piece suitable in content, word length, and interest for the publication. Offer the audience something unusual about your subject matter, give expert’s advice or worthwhile quotes, and make sure your manuscript is proofed, tightened, and follows the guidelines set forth by the editor.

I’m looking forward to the research for my pieces, even though it will probably mean a lot of rewrites. I want editors, and their readers, to be as enthusiastic as I am about my topic. That means writing for their pleasure too.

CATCHING UP

Hopefully, I have sufficiently recovered from eye surgery to once more keep this blog up. Of course, that is just one of my excuses for not being as consciencious about writing this blog as I should be. Now, my brother introduced me to Facebook and my kids, grandkids and old classmates have me hooked. Also, I am back to teaching and writing and reviewing so...

My critique pals, Lora and Carol met while I was "laid up" so have kept the group going. Carol's workshop schedule has picked up so it might be Lora and I for the most part, especially since Carol is beginning her own speaking engagements soon. Lora and I write along the same lines so much it won't hamper us. We met last week and spent four hours critiquing, talking writing, and were a great help to each other. I am hoping to continue this no matter what happens.

I'm back into my book: BJ and the Alligator Stomp. It sat for a year or so while I worked on other projects and I felt I needed something for my snail-mail critique group so pulled it out. I have actually written several chapters in a few weeks so that has encouraged me. I need to go back and insert a chapter showing the on-going conflict (even after thirty years) between BJ and Pete, and rewrite their first new encounter. Can you believe I have them meeting again when BJ plows into his shiny black pickup with the U-Haul truck she is driving? Well, what can you expect from an author who has her main character in "Aunt Lutie's Cafe" meet the sheriff while climbing out of a dumpster?

Lora also has encouraged me to submit a children's story to a picture-book publisher. I am in the process of looking up such publishers and then I need to do the dreaded query or cover letter. She can certainly help me with this as this writing is right up her alley. She writes the greatest children's stories! I am sure she will find more than one publisher for her work this year.

I'll have more to say along those lines in this blog as time goes by.

The weather has been improving--though the wind is still high and the fire danger is growing. Our garden is producing and the camera has been kept busy with snapshots of all the beautiful blooms and nature. I need to work on some poetry/photo booklets again.

So many ideas, so little time.

HOW DID THEY WRITE

Recently, I was reading about some quirks of writing habits among famous writers. I wondered if I had some--not the same--but ones original only to me. Do I write better in certain places? At certain time of day or night? Do I only write on the computer, or with pen and pad first? Is there a certain color of ink I use to write, or sign my name?

I write most anywhere. If I am meeting a deadline or doing final edits, I am only comfortable in my office at the main computer or on my laptop. If I'm writing off the top of my head, or creating a first draft of a story, I take my Acer mini to Jack's Pond, Discovery Lake, or Starbucks. Or out on the patio.

Once upon a time, I could write into the wee hours of the night. Now, I am into writing in the morning or early afternoon when I feel fresher. If I'm on deadline or editing a story or piece, I can work at night but the creative side of my brain, my imagination, is not as active late in the day as it used to be.

I often don't begin writing on any electronic device. I use a yellow-lined pad and a pen. If writing a story, I begin writing and continue until my first spurt of inspiration is run through. Then I will go to the computer, input it, print off the last page for my next beginning point. When writing an article or essay, I complete the first draft before going to the computer. I believe that by putting my work on the computer at this point, I am editing/rewriting the first draft.

And I do have this one quirk regarding ink. For example, when writing in my journal, I swtich colors of ink with each days entry. I think it gives my journal a more colorul, insightful look to my work. And when I autograph my books at a book signing or to send off through the mail, I create my message and sign my name in purple ink. Maybe it is something to do with the poem --when I grow old, I will wear purple.

Here are a few habits of the famous: John Nichols (The Milagro Bean Fields) writes in the tub beginning at 4 a.m. He writes by longhand on the back olf junk mail.

Tennessee Williams wrote "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" on his favorite writing material--an assortment of hotel stationery.

Robert Pirsig (Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance) wrote his book on index cards.

Count Leo Tolstoy and William Burroughs both used scissors and paste to "rearrange" the drafts of stories.

Toni Morrison writes on yellow legal pads with "a nice number two pencil."

John updike wrote with pen or pencil, no computer for him.

Ernest Hemingway wrote standng up.

What are your habits, or quirks?

IMPROVE OUR FICTION

As you all know, I have been working on rewrites of a novella, "Trusting Strangers." In doing this, I have shared with my students the process, the trials and angst of attempting to make this manuscript the best I can make it. One of the things I tell them I have tried to do is use some dramatic techniques. make sure I "show" as much of the characters, the interaction, the setting as possible.

We have all heard that using dialogue is an excellent way to "show" what our characters are doing. But writers have to be careful when using dialogue or thoughts in this attempt. Yes, we can use both of these techniques, but not to the extent that we, the author, show up giving out information. You want to show the action, for the most part, as it happens and allow the reader to be a part of the story--the writer needs to butt out. You can do this well with dialogue but, for the most part, it should be a current event, not a "looking back" at the happening.

I went to some books at random to find examples of show and tell. I enjoy some narative but when I see the dialogue interspersed with this description, it livens up or dramatizes the passage. You can dramatize with lots of dialogue; we humans talk a lot, so that's acceptable. We are also picky readers; very often we read the dialogue and skip the narration. Make sure your dialogue gives the reader a true understanding of the characters and, if two or more are involved in the exchange, show the relationship between characters. Let's not give readers a chance to skip the best parts of our writing.

Don't always use "said" as a tag. Show the readers a gesture or some small action to reinforce the dialogue.

I spoke of some readers shipping the long passages of description. Some writers get carried away (I loved James Mitchner's books but skipped a lot of description), and others don't give us enough. Try to reach that happy middle ground--put in enough color for readers to see the scene, the setting, or the characters. It takes practice to know how much is sufficient.

Writers can't dramatize every scene in the book or they will create tomes no one will publish, or read. The more important a scene is to the plot, to moving the story along, the more you want to "show" directly everything in what is happening. It is also your choice if you feel some shorter scenes need to be "plumped" up in order for readers to pick up on something they need to know to enhance the story, figure out the mysery, or understand the endng. Just don't choose to do this with every scene as we said before.

Show, don't tell. Use dramatic techniques to bring your stories to life. Readers will love it.

FOUND STORY

I belong to a snail mail/Yahoo group of writers who are extraordinary women writers. Tracy Johnson is our fearless leader/coordinator; she does an outstanding job each month to keep us all connected. This month she asked us to write a piece about organization. It brought to mind the new office I have and all the care that went into putting everything in place again. It also made me spend some time in several of those boxes of clippings, ideas, research--ones I haven't gone through yet.

We never know what gems we have if we are unorganized. Or what ideas we've had in the past that might be usuable--if only we knew where to lay our hands on them. I was tossing out here and there, saving this and that, and then I came across the beginning of a story I just might be able to use. See what you think with this first offering (more tomorrow).

Untitled Beginning

I guess I made a friend on the first day I moved into the old doublewide on grandpa's farm. All it took was asking Lincoln Skaines, he's my neighbor across the road, to haul off all the junk filling up the yard. But I'm thinking what really did it was telling him the deal included the Old John Deere tractor perched on blocks in the barn.

Lincoln spat a gob of thick dark tobacco juice near my hot-pink-painted toenails peeking out of Italian leather sandals. "Won't your husband be a little put out when he finds his tractor missin'?"

Doesn't it frost you when men, especially Southern men over sixty, figure there has to be a man in every woman's life--or she couldn't survive? Right!

"I'm not married. Well, not anymore. Divorced." I watched the word sink in. "James Clayborne left me the farm." I offered my hand. "I'm his granddaughter, Abby Clayborne."

He ignored the hand. "Thought you was married." Then he pulled up short. "Once upon a time you were married?" He gave a snort, sort of a sound of disbelief.

Who did Lincoln Skaines think he was--God of these parts?

I stood my ground. "Yes, I was married. I took back my maiden name--no reason to keep any connection with a loser, is there?"

He surprised me by laughing, slapping me on the back, almost knocking me over. "I like strong women. My Hazel's like that--you'll have to meet her. How 'bout comin' over for supper--we're havin' chicken 'n dumplins."

My mouth watered. But I had been raised in the city by a mother who wouldn't even go to the apartment manager's office without a written notice--never would she accept a verbal invitation to share the table with a cook who didn't even know you were coming. But it sure sounded good.

"Won't she. . .won't Hazel be a little upset with an uninvited guest for dinner?"

"Guest? You're a neighbor--and old Jimmy's kin. That makes you almost family."
***

Comments welcome.