Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

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3 Lessons for Writers

June 1, 2014 No comments

A few weeks ago, I attended (and presented at) the 2014 Pennwriters Annual Conference. First of all, it was great to be back in Lancaster, PA. I really missed Isaac’s pretzel roll sandwiches, and I snuck away long enough to have one.

But more importantly, networking with authors, editors, and agents helped me to better understand writing. For the aspiring writers out there, I thought I’d share some of what I learned:

Trends in Publishing

At the Pennwriters Conference, I was able to sign up for chats with literary agents, and I ended up sitting down for four ten-minute one-on-one sessions with four different agents. In addition, the agents sat for a Q&A session with authors during a panel session. Besides helping me see what goes into a compelling pitch, these sessions were helpful in teaching me about the publishing industry. For instance, traditional publishing seems to work in cycles–with agents and editors accepting current trends and shying away from other topics (though those topics are likely to resurface again in a few years). I also learned that it’s important to be able to “package” a concept in a way that is concise and easy to understand.

A Good Book is a Good Book

With that said, even the agents emphasized that it’s important to write what is inside you. If you write for current trends, by the time you’re ready to publish, the word will have moved away from those trends. For instance, vampires were popular about a decade before Twilight. They fell out of favor until Twilight resurrected them again, and now they are falling out of favor once more. But in a decade or so, when the world has had a chance to recover, they will be back. The bottom line is: a compelling read is a compelling read, regardless of what’s “in” at any given time. Agents kept repeating that: write what you’re passionate about. It reinforced something I’ve learned as a writer: write something you’re passionate about, and readers will follow. Readers can tell if an author is not genuine, or trying to be someone else, or just writing to get published. Write from the soul.

Never Stop Learning

Attending workshops presented by all levels of authors and publishers, I realized that writers should never stop learning. A few years ago, one of my teacher friends told me that all writers have a “thing.” Once a reader cracks “that thing,” all the author’s stories start to sound the same. This teacher friend told me that once she figures out an author’s “thing,” she stops reading that author. Many bestselling authors follow a similar formula for all of their books. While this obviously works for them, I wonder if it ever gets stale. For me, one of the joys of writing is constantly pushing myself and learning new things about my writing and my characters. Attending various workshops reminded me of different techniques and perspectives and motivated me to take a fresh look at my own writing.

I had a great time presenting. Naturally an introvert, when I step in front of a crowd and talk about something I’m passionate about, I blossom. One of the most rewarding moments was when a writer I had taught last summer in an online workshop introduced herself in person right before my presentation started. She thanked me for what I’d taught her during the online workshop and let me know that she has a book coming out soon. Knowing that in a small way, I helped her develop the skills she needed to finish that book and make it the best it could be put a smile on my face.

Teaching about writing is the perfect blend of my day job (teaching) and my passion (writing). Pennwriters asked me to teach another class this June (starting on June 9). For anyone interested, here is how to sign up:

Camera Angle Matters: Using Point of View and Indirect Characterization to Develop Your Writing

In this class, participants will examine how point of view can help shape a reader’s reaction to scenes and characters. They will examine techniques in indirect characterization and incorporate the techniques into their own writing. Participants can use a work in progress or create new characters and scenes for this workshop. All participants will receive a free one-chapter critique at the end of the class.

Week 1: POV
Week 2: Indirect Characterization using your main character and first person POV
Week 3: Indirect Characterization using other characters and third person POV
Week 4: Putting it all together: Using POV and Indirect Characterization to make your scenes work harder

To enroll:

  1. Go to www.pennwriters.org
  2. click on the “Learn” tab
  3. scroll to the bottom of the page and click on Details and registration are here.
  4. The Buy Now button is at the bottom of the page.
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Book Review: Going Barefoot by Aileen Fisher

June 1, 2014 No comments

I looked everywhere for this book. It is out of print, and I had to find a used copy online. When I was a kid, my mom and I always used to check this book out of the library. It was my absolute favorite book because the concept of going barefoot in June represented to me absolute freedom.

A kid. Summertime. No shoes. No bedtime (sort of). No school. For someone as creative as me, I could entertain myself for a thousand summers, and it meant the start of an endless stretch of days that would allow me to do just that. It was during these summers that I started writing, and the books I read instilled a love of literature.

going barefoot

In the book, written in verse by Aileen Fisher and illustrated by Adrienne Adams, a boy is standing out on a cold, bleak March day, bundled up in the same types of things I had to bundle up in when growing up in cold Connecticut. He is asking his mother, who is handing him a pair of mandatory gloves, when he’ll be able to go barefoot. He asks, “How soon / how soon / is a morning in June, / a sunny morning or afternoon / in the wonderful month / of the Barefoot Moon? / I can go barefoot… as soon / as it’s June.”

His statement fills me with the nostalgia, the almost literal pain in my soul, as I long for a beautiful day, full of life and green and birds and sun, during a long winter stretch.

Through the middle of the book, the boy considers all the types of animals that can go barefoot all the time. He wonders why he has to wait until June and July before his feet can touch the grass.

In the end of the book, his mother flips the calendar, realizing that June has arrived, and of course–the boy is out the door enjoying the weather. I thought it was an appropriate book to review for today, the first week of June. I’m not sure about where you live, but here in Virginia, as my neighbor put it while walking her dog, “we could not have ordered a better day.”

And now, I’m going outside to enjoy some more of it.

And I’m going barefoot.

book reviews none

Flash Fiction: Local Gossip About the Muffin Man

May 29, 2014 No comments

Today’s post comes from Kathy (with a “K”) L. Price. Her book, Down the nanoTubes, will be available soon. The prompt this time is to use the first line of a nursery rhyme or story as the first line

LOCAL GOSSIP ABOUT THE MUFFIN MAN

by Kathy Price

Do you know the Muffin Man? He’s the old guy who lives down on Drury Lane, in the little yellow house tucked way back in the woods. The one with the white picket fence out front.

He’s lived there alone for decades, but I heard he was engaged once, a long time ago. Just a day before the wedding, his fiancé died under mysterious circumstances. They’d worked together in the bakery and, according to the talk around town, were the perfect couple. She was pretty and smart, with a great sense of humor. He was handsome and polite with a quick wit and ready smile. The wedding was going to be THE big event of the year and everyone for miles around had been invited, including my Aunt Rose, who’s the one who told me the story.

The rumor was he’d closed the bakery the day before the wedding to make a fancy cake for their special day. He baked cookies, pies and other treats for the reception, which promised to be a celebration to remember. When he took a break in the evening, he was to pick Rose up at her parents’ house and take her out for dinner, their last “date” before becoming a married couple.

He knocked on her front door. There was no answer, so he peered in the window and saw her lying on the floor in the parlor. After calling her name and getting no response, he broke down the front door, raced to her side and found she had been stabbed. There was blood everywhere. According to his testimony, she was still alive when he found her. He cradled her in his arms. She looked into his eyes, lifted her hand to touch his face, said his name, and died.

Of course, there was a police inquiry. Some said what really happened was they had a fight and he killed her. Others thought it might just have been a robbery gone wrong. Some said Rose had been caught kissing the Muffin Man’s best friend the week before and it was he who had killed her, rather than see her marry another man.

The police were never able to prove anything, one way or the other. For a long time, the Muffin Man wouldn’t even go back into the bakery. After the inquest and his acquittal, though, he finally gathered the courage to do so. He cleaned up the bakery and threw out all the cookies, cakes and pies he’d baked for the wedding. He threw out the special cupcakes, the spun-sugar confectioneries, and rich, chocolaty fudge. He realized  life had to go on without Rose but from then on, he would make nothing but muffins, which were the only type of bakery product he hadn’t made for their reception.

They’re really good muffins, too.

 

The Spot Writers – our members:

 

RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 

Val Muller

https://valmuller.com/blog

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

http://www.writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter

 

Kathy L. Price

website under construction

 

 

 

flash fiction none

Flash Fiction: Bad, Bad, Jimmy

May 22, 2014 No comments

Today’s post comes from Cathy MacKenzie. The prompt this time is to use the first line of a nursery rhyme or story as the first line. (Some of you may recognize Jimmy from the Grimes family!)

Cathy’s most recent publication, BETWEEN THESE PAGES, is a compilation of 18 short stories. The book is available on Amazon and Smashwords:

(Watch for her next book of short stories, out soon!)

 

Bad, Bad Jimmy

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

“Little Jack Horner sat in the corner…”  The rhyme reverberated around six-year-old Jimmy.

Fascinated, the child stared at the corner. The wall bent unnecessarily, for why did the wall have to crease into two walls? He imagined how Jack Horner felt staring at a similar crimp. What was it with parents making kids face a corner? What could be more boring? But he figured that was probably the reason for the punishment—to make kids more bored than they already were. And he was bored. Too bored.

When Jimmy was bored, he got into mischief. He almost felt it was his duty to do so. What else did he have to do? His toys were boring. His room was boring. And, of course, what was he made of? Frogs and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails. No wonder he was bad. His parents continually chastising and nagging as if he were a grizzled, henpecked husband didn’t help his frame of mind.

Silently, he mouthed stories while pictures flashed before him: three profane pigs blowing down houses, three brainsick bears stealing porridge, a goosey girl dressed in red whose granny was eaten by a big bad wolf. The horror stories confused him. He was a kid, for Christ’s sake! Why did everyone read crazy tales to him? Why was his bookshelf filled with monsters and demons and why did things go bump in the night? And Christmas and Easter—what was it with green elves and obese bearded men and rabbits pretending to be santas doling out coloured eggs? He shuddered and folded his arms in an attempt to quell the tremors. His shivers grew bigger and bigger until he felt he’d explode. He imagined body parts and guts splattering around the room.  His mother would kill him if he dirtied the furniture, although his father would care only about his new recliner. Jimmy snickered. None of that would matter to him, not if he burst like an overblown water balloon. He’d be dead—unless he came back to haunt the living.

Jimmy gave up thinking of situations that would never come to pass. He squirmed so he could look around. His parents were gone. Probably up in the bedroom, he thought. Doing what? He didn’t want to dwell on that. He quit breathing while he listened. Silence. Dare he get up?

Yes, he could. When he heard his parents return, he could sneak back to his punishment place. He snickered. It was so easy to fool his mother and father, especially his mother. He relished in doing so. As often as he could.

When Jimmy snuck into the kitchen, his stomach growled. “I’m hungry,” he mumbled. Mean mother doesn’t feed me. After glancing at the clock, he spied the pie on the table. The crust, evenly browned and mounded high over an abundance of fresh fruit, lured him closer.

Little Jack Horner…

Glad to be away from the corner, though standing before a forbidden pie, Jimmy snickered again. He knew full well it wasn’t full of plums. Who would make a plum pie? Not his mother, that’s for sure. Who’d eat a plum pie? Not him; not his father. Stupid, silly nursery rhyme.

He stuck out his thumb. Hmmm, he thought. Should I? No, who would do such an airheaded thing? Besides which, his mother would kill him if he helped himself to an uncut pie. But that luscious fruit that lay beneath the crust! Sweet, syrupy, succulent. He needed a taste.

Soundlessly, he opened the cutlery drawer and withdrew a sharp knife and fork. He listened. Nothing. Salivating, he moved toward the pie. His tongue swished around the inside of his mouth, searching and seeking sweetness. Saliva drooled from his lips. Just one bite. But how did one take a bite of pie without leaving damning evidence?

Jimmy pulled out a chair and kneeled on it. He inserted the knife between the glass pie pan and the bottom crust, slightly lifting the crimped edge. Carefully, he dug the fork into the back of the crust. Jimmy ignored his drool dropping on the pie, concentrating instead on not breaking the top crust.

Almost there, he thought, as the fork entered the fruity goodness. What kind? What kind? His stomach emitted a huge growl. Apple? Blueberry? At that moment, the crimped edging broke apart and the top crust cracked as if someone walked across a semi-frozen pond. Purple juice seeped through the furrow.

Jimmy’s stomach sank, his hunger pangs forgotten. The room swirled.

“Jimmy!” A voice bellowed.

Startled, the boy turned around to see his mother looming from the doorway. He stared at her for a second before turning back to the pie. The damage was already done. He’d be punished no matter what happened next. He jabbed the fork into the middle of the pie and pulled out a hunk of delectable goodness. Half of it dropped on top of the crust, the other half managed to complete the journey to his mouth.

“Get back to the corner,” his mother shrieked. “Bad, bad boy!”

Jimmy dropped the fork and screamed, “But I want pie.”

Facing the corner again, Jimmy sucked the traces of blueberry syrup from his fingers. Words reverberated around him: “What a good boy am I!”

***

The Spot Writers—our members.
RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 

Val Muller

https://valmuller.com/blog/

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

 

Kathy Price

(website in progress)

 

 

 

flash fiction none

Spot Writers: Distress Signal

May 15, 2014 No comments

This week’s Spot Writers prompt is to use the first line of a nursery rhyme in a story. This week’s tale comes from Val Muller, who you can stalk at www.ValMuller.com. She writes books for children and adults.

Distress Signal

By Val Muller

“Rock-a-by Baby.” The screen beeped.

“I know,” Ezram growled. “On the tree top. Commencing treetop search. Triangulating signal.” He scurried under the tall, leafy branches of these strange Earth plants. They were all green. So weird. He snapped a few pictures before moving on. “So many trees on this planet. If only I knew which one.” He looked at his wrist screen.

The computer beeped. “Triangulation unavailable. Signal no longer active.”

He was too late. “Computer, replay signal.”

The screen obeyed:
“Rock-a-by baby
On the treetop
When the wind blows
The cradle will rock”

“Computer, stop.” Ezram held out his hand. “No wind here. Computer, located wind gusts.” The computer did, and Ezram worked hard to navigate the strange planet, its mix of civilization and wilderness. He had to be sure not to transport somewhere dangerous, like the middle of a highway. This place didn’t have sensors to aid transporters. Safer to travel by foot, but this planet was tough. Nothing like the planned, manicured terrain of home.

After much searching, he found a place laden with trees and plagued by wind gusts. Surely the baby was here.

“Computer, resume play.”

The computer obeyed:
“The cradle will rock
When the bough breaks
The cradle will fall
And down will come baby, cradle, and all.”

“When the bough breaks?” Ezram searched frantically. “I see no boughs broken. Maybe it’s not windy enough.” He kept searching. The wind picked up, and he walked through the trees until he came to a clearing. There were several humans, some standing and some sitting in an open field.

He remembered his orders—not to reveal his identity, so he programmed a disguise sequence into his computer. Instantly, tentacles and tail were exchanged for dark glasses and a fedora. Then he stepped into the field.

“I need your baby,” he announced to the first couple he met.

“What?” The female of the couple seemed surprised.

The male of the couple laughed. “We don’t have a baby. Drink another one, though, and the cops’ll be out to get you, buddy. Just hauled away some guy who was doing kegstands under the pavilion. They’re out for blood today.”

“Computer,” Ezram whispered, “define kegstand.”

“Term unknown,” the computer answered.

Ezram chilled at the response. This planet was so strange. How was he supposed to save this baby when humans were so irrational about everything? And now they were something called “out for blood.” That didn’t sound good. That poor baby.

He kept walking, adjusting his fedora over his four earflaps. “I need a baby,” he muttered. “A baby in a cradle.”

Near a covered structure—probably the pavilion the male had warned him about—a mass of people loitered. They were consuming nutrients and making strange sounds. And there it was—a baby, underneath the shade of a tree, in a cradle. This was it! Next to the baby, a mechanical device was playing another distress beacon. This one made less sense, but Ezram programmed the computer to record it just the same:

“Summertime, when the living is ea-sy.”

“Computer,” he said. “Report back. I have found the baby and the source of the distress beacon. Commencing recue operation.”

#

Fifteen days, and two court appearance later, Ezram pouted while his starship took him home. His supervisor wanted a report, and he might as well get it out of the way.

“Computer, record report.”

“Recording.”

“After tracking down the source of the distress beacon, Ezram found the baby in question. It did not seem distressed until the humans surrounded it started screaming. They have a strange way of thanking someone who is only there to help. The child was then provoked into screeching louder than our nighthawks. Its wails brought Earth Police. Their police force is not polite and did not seem to care for the wellbeing of the baby. They took the baby from Ezram’s arms and gave it right back to the irresponsible humans who must have put it high in a treetop, in harm’s way, in the first place. They seemed to demand an explanation, so Ezram repeated the signal for them, the distress beacon. They did not understand. Their justice system is confusing and inefficient, and their jails are not comfortable. In the end, Ezram chose to teleport out rather than wait for his final court date. Attaching pictures of Earth trees, human social rituals, interior of Earth Police vehicles, and interior of Earth prison. Recommend we stay away from now on, or at least things cool down. Respectfully reported, Ezram.

Damn. Looks like he’d get passed up for promotion yet again. Stupid Earthlings.

The Spot Writers- our members.

 

RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

Val Muller

https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie

http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

 

 

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Spot Writers: The Truth About Jack

May 8, 2014 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week the prompt is to use the first line of a nursery rhyme in the story in the story. Fun!

 Today’s contribution comes from RC Bonitz, author of A BLANKET FOR HER HEART.  

 

The Truth About Jack

by R. C. Bonitz

 

Jack and Jill went up a hill to fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown and Jill came tumbling after. Hold it- that’s the Madison Avenue version of this story. Watered down-to make Jack look good.

The truth is Jack didn’t fall. Jill gave him a shove. You see this guy Jack is not the sweetest soul in the world. They climbed to the top of that hill and Jack, as he loved to do, began bossing Jill around, making her fill the pail and then insisting she carry the loaded pail all the way down the hill. By herself, while he meandered casually beside her.

Now Jill is pretty tolerant and easy going, but this was just the last straw. Jack the Bully, that’s what he is. So, she gave him an elbow in the ribs and sent him flying.

Down, down he went tumbling over and over. (He’s not very athletic.) Finally, he crashed on his crown, which broke into three pieces. That’s important, because that gold crown (yup, that’s the type of crown he had.) is sort of magical. As long as he was wearing it he felt like a king. Thought he was pretty hot stuff actually. When he saw it in three pieces he went to pieces too, moaning and groaning and crying. Blaming Jill of course. But his blaming and demanding had no power anymore. She just smiled and ignored his complaints.

Now Jill is pretty resourceful. She grabbed some Super Glue and fixed that crown and stuck it on her own head. Something magical happened. Jack’s erstwhile power shifted to her. He couldn’t bully her anymore. She had the power now. She could be the bossy one if she wanted to. Or she could still be the kind and sweet soul she’d always been. (Except for that shove of course!)

She had an interesting decision to make.

  

The Spot Writers- our members.

 

 

RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 

Val Muller

https://valmuller.com/blog/

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

 

flash fiction none

Spot Writers: The Letter

May 1, 2014 No comments

 Today’s post comes from Cathy MacKenzie. The prompt this time is to use three of the following words in the story: ridicule, laugh, spellbound, following, letter.

Cathy’s most recent publication, BETWEEN THESE PAGES, is a compilation of 18 short stories. The book is available on Amazon and Smashwords:

 

The Letter

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

The letter arrived in the mail on June 7. The addressee, a bit disconcerting, jarred Mildred to attention, and she swiped at a tear. She stared at the tan envelope, noting the missing return address and non-existent stamp. She supposed the mail slipped undetected through the scanner. How else could it have made it to her box? One needed a key to open it. She cringed. Days of home delivery were long gone. Streets lined with mailboxes and red arrows pointing up or down made her feel warm and cozy, like living in a Norman Rockwell painting. Oh, for the good old days, she thought. But what the heck. Life moves on. Not like I’m old like my mother or grandmothers, rest their souls. Mildred felt it necessary to add “rest their souls.” She had heard that phrase so many times it was ingrained in her head.

She slammed the door of the mailbox and returned to her car. She threw the several pieces of mail on the passenger seat, ensuring the mailbox key went into her purse. She had lost the key once, only to have Ted, her husband, discover it on the driver’s seat. She wasn’t sure how it landed there. Probably slipped to her lap instead of in her purse or she forgot it was in her hand and let it drop between her legs. Luckily the key hadn’t been lost, or she would’ve had a hassle obtaining a replacement, and, most certainly, it wouldn’t have been an easy feat. Nor cheap. There’d be a fee, for sure. Canada Post wouldn’t give anything away.

Drat passing time and bills and mysteries, she thought, as she drove away. Mildred squinted into the sunlight. What was that ahead? A truck? A moving van? Why was it coming toward her, invading her lane? Where was the white dividing line? Despite sunglasses, the glare blinded her. What the dickens!

Mildred braked—just in time. So did the vehicle ahead, the one careening toward her. She glanced into the rear view mirror to see a van looming. She felt hemmed in, jammed between metal monstrosities, when all she wanted was to return home, plonk into her rocker, sip a cuppa. She rolled her tongue across her lips, tasting the tea she had leisurely sipped that morning—the English tea she loved so well—though she felt the blister on her tongue. And the bubble forming on her lip. I drank it too fast, she thought. Didn’t let it cool enough. Patience wasn’t one of her virtues.

Spellbound, she stared out the windshield. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She simply stopped at the community mailboxes, returned to her car, and drove. Minding her own business, for when did she ever interfere with other’s lives. Never, that’s when. And heck, if the sun happened to blind her, what could she do? And who told those vehicles to follow or drive toward her. No, she was right; they were wrong. Besides, she was in her nineties. Didn’t seniors deserve extra consideration?

A young man peered into her car. Mildred rolled down the window. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re driving too fast, lady.”

“Me?” Mildred looked around.

“Yes, you.”

“I’m just driving home. Need my afternoon tea, you know. And, lookie here.” Mildred produced the mystery letter. “Look at this. A mystery.”

“Mystery? You almost killed me.”

“I did not.”

“You did. Perhaps you’re too old to be driving.” The young man glared at her. “When’s the last time you had a driver’s test?”

“Driver’s test? Me?”

“Yes. You. You’re the problem. You seniors are always the problem. “

“Sonny, watch your tongue. I’m a fine, upstanding citizen.”

“Yeah, right. Kill someone and see what happens to you then.”

“I didn’t kill anyone. I was minding my own business until you arrived.” Mildred paused. “Did I show you my mystery letter?”

The man glared at her. “I don’t care about your letter. I just want to ensure the roads are safe. They’re not safe with you on them, ma’am.”

Mildred opened her mouth, then thought better of it. She could ridicule him all she wanted, but what good would that do? He’d continue to glare, daring her to proceed with her tirade. No, she’d be the good person. She’d shut up.

“I have to go. My tea is waiting.” Mildred rolled up the window. The man, brandishing his arms, sauntered back to his car.

Mildred until the vehicles dispersed. She didn’t want to be accused of any further disturbance. Once alone, she admitted she was, perhaps, too old to drive. But she didn’t want to give up her “wheels,” as the youngsters referred to vehicles. What would she do? There was no public transportation in her residential area. She’d be stuck at home, bored and lonely. No, she couldn’t give up her car. She’d have to be more careful in the future. Her livelihood depended upon it. She didn’t want to wither away like some decrepit old soul without a life.

She drove into the driveway of her small bungalow, grabbed her purse and the mail from the seat, and entered the house. After she put on the kettle, she stared at the mysterious, non-descript envelope. She should toss it in the trash. If someone wasn’t decent enough to affix a return address, she shouldn’t have to waste time opening it. She rationalized a missing return address was the same as a private or blocked number on the telephone. She ignored those phone calls, just as she should ignore unknown envelopes. What if they contained anthrax or another legal powder? What right did people have to disguise themselves, hide behind blocked numbers and missing return addresses? If someone couldn’t announce his or her presence, so be it.

Despite strong feelings of retaliation, she felt pulled toward the plain envelope. Her long nail slid across the flap. She pulled out the paper. One sheet.

The paragraphs—blocks of letters—loomed before her. Though too many words and sentences blurred her eyes, several lifted from the page. The important ones. Estate of Mildred Simpson … tax return … unfiled … penalty … interest … outstanding amount….

Her face flushed, then turned white. What!

Mildred dropped the letter before racing to the mirror. Her face. Was that her? She flattened wayward hairs on the top of her head. I am alive. I’m alive. Dratted mail system. Dratted government. She greedily gulped a needed breath.

Mildred’s next thought was her driver’s license. Had it expired?

 

***

 

The Spot Writers- our members.
 RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 Val Muller

https://valmuller.com/blog/

 Catherine A. MacKenzie

http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

 

 

 

 

 

 

flash fiction none

Book Review: Number the Stars by Lois Lowry

April 28, 2014 No comments

I loved this book as a child, and I re-read it for educational purposes—I’ll be presenting some workshops on using literature to encourage closer reading later this year. The book was even more poignant than I remembered it, and I love the freedom theme running through it.

The novel follows Annemarie and Ellen, two girls in Copenhagen during Nazi occupation in the 1940s. While they’re just trying to live their lives, they are introduced to things they barely understand: Jewish shops that are forced to close, shortages of goods, explosions, people who seem to disappear, and growing Nazi presence. Early on, Annemarie snuggles in bed, “glad to be an ordinary person who would never be called upon for courage” (26). This introduces an important theme, as she is called upon later to help save her friend.

Upon first re-read, Lowry’s verb choice struck me. Though written for young readers, Lowry uses strong verbs that help to characterize each group. For the soldiers, she uses menacing verbs (and other diction). There is also the theme of freedom and being called to be part of a Resistance mentioned as early as the first chapter. In bedtime tales, the theme of an entire country being willing to die to protect someone else introduces the theme of sacrifice for a greater goal. In this case, people must be willing to stand up to a monster, even at the cost of their own lives.

There is also symbolism and literary relevance woven throughout the tale. For instance, Annemarie’s older sister has died, but when Annemarie’s family takes Ellen into their home to pretend to be a sibling (to hide from the Nazis), her father says, “Once I had three daughters. Tonight I am proud to have three daughters again” (38).

What I respect about this book is: even though it’s for young readers, its use of details “respect the reader.” The details help to build the world the characters are forced to inhabit. They add historical relevance as well as characterization. Motifs and themes, such as the use of fairy tales as metaphors, emerge and re-emerge, adding meaning to the tale. Many books for young readers simply skip such details. It’s a book I recommend for readers of any age. I read it as a child (many times). I treasured it then, and I enjoyed it just as much this time.

 

book reviews none

Spot Writers: Early Decision

April 24, 2014 No comments

This week the prompt is to use three of the following words in the story: ridicule, laugh, spellbound, following, letter. This week’s post is written by Val Muller, who you can stalk at www.ValMuller.com

 

Early Decision

By Val Muller

“Everything happens for a reason,” Mom said, pushing the milk over to Allie.

“Easy for you to say.” Allie gritted her teeth. “You’ve already been to college. Besides, it wasn’t so competitive when you were a teenager. Parents don’t understand how much pressure is on us these days. If you had my qualifications back in your day, you’d probably be offered a full scholarship to the Ivy of your choice.” She checked her phone.

“Allie, the email said the decision would be posted at 5 p.m. It’s barely past breakfast time.”

Allie sighed. “I know. But all the kids are Tweeting about it. Last year, they posted at 3:00. They did it early because the server always crashes when everyone logs on at once to check. So I thought I’d keep checking.”

“Honey, you might single-handedly crash their server before noon.” Mom sipped her coffee. “I still say everything happens for a reason. Whatever the decision today, it’s the right one. That’s why I say it’s dangerous to get your heart set on something.”Her eyes got far away and dreamy. “I remember going to the mailbox every day senior year. I knew the decision wouldn’t arrive until April, but I checked for a letter nonetheless.” She laughed. “When we were your age, we looked at the size of the envelope. If it was a small letter, it was a rejection. If it was a large envelope or a packet, it was an acceptance. From her bedroom window, my sister always watched me get the mail, and every day I held my hands up, empty, to show her the decision hadn’t come.

“One day, I awoke and I just knew the letter would arrive that afternoon. When I got home from school, I was so nervous that I couldn’t even check the mail. I sent my sister out in my stead, and I watched her carefully, spellbound. She opened the mailbox, her eyes wide. I was so excited, you would have thought she was about to discover the fountain of youth. Her face melted from possibility to despair as she held up a tiny envelope from the college that had stolen my heart. My grades weren’t the greatest, but my guidance counselor told me I had a fair shot at admission. Guess she was wrong.

“I didn’t cry right away, but it hit me later that night. The despair lasted a while. For weeks and months afterward, I didn’t see the good in my life because I was so upset about one thing that I thought was the end of the world. I didn’t appreciate it when my second choice school offered me a half-scholarship. I mean, half off tuition? It was for the birds, I told myself. In fact, I wasted that whole summer—the summer after my senior year, the one that should be happy and carefree—pining away for a school that didn’t want me.

“Looking back on it now, though, that decision was the right one. Everything happens for a reason. After all, if I hadn’t been rejected from my first choice, I would never have met your father. And then you and your brother would never have been born. The world would be a different place. It was meant to be.”

Allie shrugged. “Easy for you to say. What if my future husband is at my first choice school?”

“Hindsight,” Mom said. “We can’t know what’s meant to be until we experience it and see fate’s true plan for us. You just have to be patient.”

Allie huffed and checked her phone again. “Nothing yet.” She took a bite of her cereal and sent out the first of many Tweets. “It’s gonna be a long day.”

The Spot Writers- our members:

RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

Val Muller

https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie

http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Melinda Elmore

http://www.authormelindaelmore.blogspot.com/

 

flash fiction , , , , , ,

Writing Process Blog Tour

April 22, 2014 No comments

I was tagged by the lovely Clara Bowman-Jahn, author of Annie’s Special Day, to share the answer to four questions about my writing. Check out her website for information about her newest release. You can also visit her blog, facebook, and twitter.

 

What am I working on?

Right now, I’m working on a future, ruined-Earth sci-fi YA novel (with a Wild West twist) in which humanity willingly gives in to slavery in exchange for bread and circuses.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I’m a writer who crosses genres. I hate being confined (freedom is an important theme in my life and in my writing). I like being able to take elements from many genres: the imaginative aspects of science fiction (there are aliens in my story who enslave the human race in exchange for basic human needs—showers, food, water, and entertainment); the personal growth of a protagonist in a YA novel (I love Abigail Andrin’s spirit as she struggles against the world she faces); and the ruggedness of the Wild West (the world Earth has become is barren and dry and as wild as the West ever was).

Why do I write what I do?

For me, freedom is the most important theme in my life and in literature. In my personal life as well as in my political beliefs, I believe whole-heartedly in freedom. I believe people should be free to make choices with the understanding that choices come with responsibility. I wouldn’t want the government or some other authority telling me what I can or cannot do, so I believe in limited authority to the extent possible, with the knowledge that one’s freedom ends when one begins hurting others. This is an important theme in my WIP. Abby lives freely, but she never takes from others; she lives only off the bounty of her own hard work. She leaves others alone, but if they cross her and try to take what belongs to her, what she earned, she turns fiery and fights back.

How does my writing process work?

All my story ideas start as a little gem in my brain. I usually jot down the idea in a notebook. Then I let it simmer. I have notebooks and notebooks full of ideas. I’m not sure anyone’s life is long enough to write each of those into a story or a novel. But the best of those gems, the ones that really resonate with me, keep pressing on my brain until I start writing it. At that point, I’m an outliner. I need to create outlines because the ideas for characters and arcs and subplots come faster than I’m able to write them into a novel. So I jot down a fast outline, and I work from that. For me, writing novels should be done as quickly as possible, while all the characters and settings and twists are alive and balanced in my brain. I then let the first draft “cool” while working on other projects before coming back to edit.

My second edits take care of strengthening themes I’ve discovered during the first draft as well as adding foreshadowing. All subsequent drafts deal with smoothing out characters and adding interesting language and details that will make the book more enjoyable for the reader—making the characters and world pop into 3D.

inspiration, musings, writing none
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