Life is the raw material from which all writers work. Personal experiences and relationships with people often stir the urge to create and inspire the stories we put on the page. Whether you’re working on a memoir or a work of fiction based on your life experiences, the first place you will probably look for material is inside your mind, within your own memories.

But memories tend to blur and fade, making writing about your past difficult to do without research. Research can reveal details and eliminate inaccuracies that you may not remember correctly. Plus research helps you develop your material from a one-sided account into a multidimensional story so it resonates with people besides yourself and your family.

If you’re working on a memoir, or a story based on your life, consider looking in the following four places for information that will not only help shape your story, but also give it depth and dimension beyond what you can remember.

1. Personal Journals

As a kid, I was so worried that someone might find and read my journals that I often destroyed them. The thought of someone discovering my innermost feelings horrified me-after all, sixth grade can be pretty traumatizing. But now that I’m a writer struggling to know myself and my stories, there’s nothing I regret more than throwing my precious material into the garbage.

When assembling a memoir or other work based on your life, personal journals are often the most valuable resource you can have. So if you don’t already, start keeping a journal. Although you may not think you have anything significant to write about each day, just jotting down the date and a few notes about what you did will prove to be helpful for determining dates and timelines of events when you start writing your memoir.

If you have journals from your past, or even from your family members, you should haul them out of your attic and read them cover to cover. For writers, journals are like goldmines. They can help you recall events and your personal feelings and thoughts from that time in your life. A journal can even help you determine what your story is really about by revealing themes, potential story lines, and other important details about you and your life that you may not remember at first.

2. Photo Albums

Family photos are another invaluable resource for memoirists, so dig yours out and start looking. Photos help writers on several levels. First, they can help you remember people and events from your past. They can also be used to put faces with names, which can be used in descriptions. Photos can reveal personalities and clues about people and places that you may have forgotten or overlooked at the time.

For example, you might notice that your uncle isn’t smiling in any pictures. What does that tell you about his character? Is that consistent with your memories of him? You may also be able to mine valuable details about the locations where your life story unfolded, such as your childhood home, your backyard, or your college dorm. All these details will be captured in the backgrounds of your old photos.

Organizing photos can be a big job in itself and every person’s photo collections are likely in different states of order, so do your best to work with what you have and what’s applicable to your project. You may also have to contact family members and friends to put names with some of the faces and identify locations that appear in your collection of old photos.

3. Newspaper Archives

When researching family histories and personal stories, many writers look for obituaries and wedding announcements in their hometown newspapers. But newspaper archives can offer a writer much more than obits. If you’re looking for information about a specific event, newspaper archives are often the best place to look for a local perspective. And just leafing through the old pages-or microfilm reels-can stir old memories and ideas about your personal history.

You can use newspaper archives to help create accurate pictures of your life story’s setting by looking at what and who were making news at that time in your life. Clippings can jog memories of people and events that may have played a role in the story you want to write. Newspapers can even reveal interesting stories that deepen and expand your personal history.

Your hometown’s library should have a complete archive of the local newspaper, most likely preserved on microfilm or microfiche. The newspaper, if it’s still in operation, may also have a comprehensive archive. Many newspapers offer their archives online, but the available dates may be limited and the search functions may not be as extensive as you need. You may have to contact the newspaper for information about using their archives. If you no longer live in your hometown, consider visiting for research purposes because some newspaper archives aren’t available any other way.

4. Interview Family and Friends

Even though you may be writing your own life history, getting your friends’ and family members’ perspectives on the events you write about will help you create a story with more depth and breadth. It will help ensure the events you recreate on the page are accurate beyond your own memories, which tend to shift and blur over time. And your story will be less one-sided with insight from other people who witnessed the events of your life.

Start by talking to your family and friends about the events you’re writing about, and see what they remember. Parents and grandparents, as long as they’re still around and able, will be able to provide invaluable insight on events of the past. Even old friends and neighbors, if you can track them down, are great resources when you’re writing a personal or family history. They may even be able to refer other helpful people and resources, such as diaries or family photos that you may not have known about.

When you approach friends and family members for information, think like a reporter and create a list of questions to give your interviews some structure. Talk about what they remember, and cover everything from conversations that took place to weather that day. But let your interviewees go off on tangents that seem interesting or important. And make sure you take good notes or record your interviews so you can transcribe them later.

Telling Your Stories

Everyone is interesting, and everyone has a story to tell. But telling an interesting personal story means looking beyond your memory of what happened in your life and finding deeper meaning and different perspectives through research.

As you write your memoir or novel based on your life, search beyond what you remember and look for material that will round out your narrative beyond what parts stuck with you. Your research may reveal story lines, themes, and details that you may have overlooked. Research takes work, but the results will pay off with a story that resonates with larger audiences and reflects the events of your life with greater accuracy.

Melinda Copp is a freelance editor, writer, and author of the e-book The WRITE Way to Author a Profitable Book, a resource for entrepreneurial writers who want to create a marketable informational product that sells. For more information about Melinda and her services, visit her online at MelindaWrites. If you have any questions about how Melinda can help you, send her an email at info@melindawrites.com.

I’ve been a full time freelance writer for a little over two years now, and part time before this for going on ten.  I honestly think I could do this for the next twenty years and my family still would be unable to describe what it is I do.  When asked, they generally say one of the following:

1.  She writes stuff.
2.  She sells stories on the internet.
3.  She’s like a writer, I guess, but not books.

For some time my genre was true crime and it was nothing for me to have autopsy photographs and crime scene reports scattered about the kitchen table, under our bowls of Cheerio’s. The family grew accustomed to random Post-It notes with murder details stuck to the oddest places - including the coffee maker.  I spent a brief stint helping a website with their content needs on early punk rock music.  At almost 40 I was feeling “Raw Power” with Iggy and the Stooges, and  learning to imitate the infamous Pogo with the Sex Pistols.

With Hunter S. Thompson as a hero, it only stands to reason that my behavior may tend to sway toward the absurd and excessive.  Yet when I informed the husband I needed to purchase a pig’s head for theory testing, he had the audacity to want an explanation!  Swine skin and bone is the most like our human skin and bone.  I needed to see if a particular tool could render a certain type of wound.  Morbid, perhaps.  But I can’t present a theory unless I have supporting research to back it up!

In time the family learned the tell tale signs that I was “working”, as opposed to playing on MySpace.  If I’m playing, they get a muttered “uh huh” and complimentary nod of my head in response to their questions.  If I’m working, they get shot the look of death, and a wave of my hand to dismiss them.  The husband learned to tolerate late nights without me, and cranky mornings with me.  The children adapted to microwave foods and paper plates.

When one of my written works sells, and the occasional accolade comes my way, I may appear overly humble in accepting it.  The reason isn’t because I feel my work unworthy.  The reason is because the true accolade is owed to the ones who love me enough to humor me on this crazy career I’ve chosen!  Behind every successful writer is someone who has always loved them and thought they were the greatest - long before they ever became published.

Angela Swanlund is the owner of Rural Family Living, LLC and the Creator of The Written Word Blog.  You can view Angela’s on-line portfolio at: http://www.stonecastwoman.com.

I don’t mean to alarm anyone and I certainly don’t mean to be an extremist, (Okay, the article on the destruction of mankind as we know it may have been borderline) but there is a rumor that, if true, could cause extreme havoc in the community and the release of thousands of people taking to the streets and screaming at the top of their lungs, like in a bad Japanese monster flick.  I’m speaking about, of course, the return of Disco!

I know.  I know.  Those of us who lived through it, back in the 70’s remember, all too well, the metamorphosis that took place in our culture.  It was a little more than three decades ago that the onslaught of music, with the open and closed cymbal, made people dress in very bizarre fashions and forced them to go to nightclubs so they could “Shake Their Booty”, because “That’s The Way They Liked It” (Uh-huh, uh-huh.)

Many of you may have met your future spouses at one of these places, married them, and created your own generation of disco dudes and dudettes.   The writing is on the wall, folks.  What goes around, comes around and the chance that your offspring might end up in this God-awful craze, could be just a Bee Gees song away.

For those of you who were too (how can I put this delicately?) wrecked to remember anything from the last six years of that decade, here are some telltale signs to determine if a member of your brood is considering becoming trapped in that Black Hole called Disco!

Are they using terms like “funky”, “get down” or “bad” when they mean good?  Example: Kid - “This hot fudge sundae is bad.”  Parent - “It smells alright to me.”  Is their bedroom wall covered with K.C. and the Sunshine Band posters?  Have you caught them, in front of the mirrors, practicing dance steps, which include, pointing to the floor and then swinging the arm up and pointing to the sky?  Then you’ve got trouble, my friend, right here in River City.  I say, trouble and that starts with “t” which rhymes with “d” and that stands for Disco!

It’s amazing the impact those five letters had on our everyday lives; not only in music, but in fashion, too.  Who will ever forget bellbottom trousers?  I mean, bellbottoms that spread out so wide, Ringling Brothers could have handled a complete matinee under one pant leg and kept a third world country dry under the other one.

The fabric of the 70’s was, none other than, polyester.  “Poly” from the term “able to stretch like rubber” and “ester” meaning “extremely flammable.”  (Anyone who has ever dropped a lit cigarette on a pair of polyester pants will know they ignite faster than a Ford Pinto.)

Who will ever forget the popular leisure suit?  The universal appeal to this little number was the fact that you could get married in it and, later that afternoon, Velcro a number on the back and play shortstop on a league softball team.  Under the jacket would be worn a very loud and decorative shirt with wild colors, crazy patterns, and lapels wide enough to land a troop transport on them.

To cap off this lovely ensemble there was a piece of fancy footwear called the platform shoe.  The purpose of these shoes were to allow people, intent on suicide, the opportunity to do it at any given time.  The victim would stand on top of these shoes, while a crowd would gather below and chant, “JUMP!”  Later, after they went out of style, platform shoes were used to raise houses in low-lying, flood-prone areas.

So, if you feel your children may be falling into this dreaded trap, there is help.  Pick up the phone and dial 1-800-DSCO-STNKS.  Operators are standing by now to talk to your child about Generation X (or Y, or whatever letter they’re using this month) and play music dated no later than 1969.

Remember, help is just a phone call away.

After working as a deejay at a New Jersey radio station, where Carl Megill was given free reign to write commercial parodies and a 64 episode comedy soap opera, he branched out into the wonderful world of writing sitcoms. Although none ever sold, he did win, or placed high, in several script writing contests. This included first place in the TVWriter.com competition for an “Everybody Loves Raymond” script. He also enjoyed winning a playwriting competition for a comedy entitled, “You’re Never Too Old,” which was produced on stage to favorable reviews. Four of his short plays have also been produced.

His only screen credit is as a staff writer for the Seattle based sketch comedy program “Night Shift.” It’s also his only credit at imdb. His humor column, “The Mind of Megill,” has appeared in print and on the internet. He has also written and performed stand up comedy at area comedy clubs. He enjoys writing, sports and referring to himself in the third person.

Fantasy fiction is doing good business at the moment, but there are certain situations that have been overplayed. So much so, that they have become genre clichés, and everybody knows what to expect next. If you’re a writer in the fantasy genre, here are 6 clichés you should try to avoid in your stories.

1. Receiving tutoring from the old wise man.

The ‘Merlin’ gambit, as used in Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, Dragonslayer and innumerable King Arthur clones. A stable boy or other similar seemingly low-born type is taken under the wing of the local eccentric. There’s usually a beard involved, and a pair of blue eyes piercing from beneath some spectacularly bushy eyebrows. He’ll say things like: ‘All of nature is one’, ‘Use the force’ and ‘You have a great destiny, my boy.’ Try not to give him a grey cloak and an elven sword. Maybe you could try having the youth tutoring the old man for a change? Or, more radical, how about having the teacher as an old woman?

2. Learning to fight.

The ‘Galahad’ gambit. The stable boy gets secret training in weaponry, allowing him to beat a seasoned warrior in his first fight. People say: ‘I’ve never seen the like before’ and ‘He is the best swordsman I have ever seen’. Now how realistic is that? A radical idea would be to have the stable boy being completely useless at weapons. How is he going to fulfil his destiny then?

3. The parting from everything you ever knew.

The ‘Dick Whittington’ gambit. The stable-hand, being under a geas to complete a great quest, must say goodbye to hearth and home. People say: ‘I must go and fulfil my destiny’ and ‘I will return when I have avenged my father’. This is usually done with a great deal of schmaltz and emotion. Sometimes it is done violently, the hero being parted from family by the villain of the piece, who he is destined to kill at the end of the story. Either way, it has been done so often that any tears you are expecting to provoke could well be due to laughter. Try to do something different. Why does the hero have to leave his family? What would happen if he took them with him?

4. Being abducted from earth to a different world.

The ‘John Carter’ gambit. People say: ‘How did I get here” and ‘You have been delivered to us in our hour of need’. This one was heavily overused in the early and mid-twentieth century by H Rider Haggard and A E Merritt among others. Usually it is no more than a ploy to get a character the writer is comfortable writing about into a fantasy situation where said character could never otherwise exist. Edgar Rice Burroughs liked it so much he even had it happen to Tarzan on occasion. And it still happens, the most obvious modern examples being Thomas Covenant and the various present day characters that Stephen King has recruited into his Dark Tower series. Maybe your hero could be someone from another dimension who gets transported to Earth? Or maybe he stays where he is, but everything changes around him?

5. The multi-race bar room.

The ‘Inn at Bree’ gambit. It happens a lot in science fiction a-la Star Wars, but it is just as common in the fantasy genre. After a thirsty day on the road, our heroic stable boy and his companions will visit an inn. Inside, there will be representatives of different races from the world created for the story. The innkeeper will always be fat and jolly, there will always be a silent stranger in a dark corner, and someone will sing a silly song giving the writer his chance to show off his invention of other-worldly lyrics. How about having a human trying to get a drink in a dwarf-only bar, or vice-versa? There should be plenty of opportunity to add tension there.

6. Discovering hidden family truths.

The ‘Ugly Duckling’ gambit. The stable boy gets to the final climactic battle, only to find that his adversary is his father/mother/brother/sister etc. People say: ‘It was kept from you to protect you’ and ‘You cannot kill me, I’m your father’. This has been so overused, it even turns up across genres: witness Luke Skywalker confronting Darth Vader for example. A variation is to have the hero find that he is suddenly a prince, or even king. This says more about the writer’s own desires than it does about the plot. Wishful-thinking fantasies do not usually make strong stories. But what would happen if the hero already knew his background, but his adversary didn’t?

The next time you read a fantasy story, count how many of the above are still in use. I think you’ll be surprised. It’s even worse in film and television, where all of them can occur in any one movie, and often do. Just look at Star Wars - it contained most of them, and still made huge amounts of money.

And that’s also why the above should be taken with a pinch of salt. Clichés still have their place in popular culture. Just don’t take that as an excuse to use them yourself. At least not too often.

William Meikle is a Scottish writer, now living in Canada, with seven novels published in the States and three more coming in 2007/8, all in the independent fantasy and horror press. His short work and articles have appeared in the UK, Ireland, USA, Canada, Greece, Saudi Arabia and India. He also has three shorts produced from his scripts, and several supernatural scripts currently on option, including four shorts, and a supernatural thriller feature.

With this new realm of competition at our doorstep, I’ve created a list of ways that can set you apart from those who are merely dabbling in writing or writing simply for marketing’s sake.

1) Develop a website. If you don’t already have one, confirm your legitimacy as a writer or journalist by creating your own website. It can be as simple as one page which tells who you are, what types of writing you specialize in and how people can contact you. At the other end of the spectrum, it can be a multi-page site that contains bio information, a professional profile or résumé and clips of your work. Regardless of your site’s level of complexity, your site will confirm that you are a professional writer with a portfolio and published clips.

2) Create a professional profile. Unless you graduated from j-school and have been a professional writer since your career began, I’ve found that a traditional resume doesn’t cut it. Instead, I developed a two-page professional profile. It looks similar to my résumé, but it only briefly summarizes my irrelevant career prior to becoming a freelancer over four years ago. It contains sections like relevant skills (writing, editing, marketing); a sample of my client list; my relevant education; and a list of publications and websites for whom I’ve written. I have this document posted on my website so, when replying to a freelance posting or ad, I can refer the editor or prospective client to my profile without sending an attachment (hint:  unless they know you, they won’t open an attachment anyway.).

3) Prepare an online portfolio. Whether you include this information on your website or use one provided by an organization like Media Bistro, you’ll need an online portfolio of your published work. It can be organized any number of ways, depending on what types of clips you have. On my site, portfolio samples are broken down by type (articles, marketing materials, and web copy). You could also break them down by publication or media type (broadcast, print, web, newspaper, magazine, etc.) Clips can take virtually any format:  you can post them directly to a web page, add a *.pdf or *.doc/*.docx attachment, link to a URL, etc. As long as your portfolio is well organized and the clips are relatively current, site visitors (a.k.a. prospective clients) will be able to find what they’re looking for.

4) Proof and edit your own work. Have you ever received an e-mail or letter from a colleague or prospective client riddled with mistakes? Did it make you cringe? This is a common pet peeve of professional writers and editors, including me. I always tell (read: nag) business professionals from all industries but particularly writers and editors to make sure they proof and edit their own work prior to submission to an editor or client. Of course, the materials are likely to be proofread and copyedited by someone else, too, but if you want repeat business or additional assignments, your work must be top notch and error-free. Because so many “article marketers” are focused on selling their products and services and NOT on punctuation and spelling, your writing will be superior.

5) Hone your craft. Whether you are a self-taught or college-educated writer, continue to expand your talent by investing in quality resources (a good dictionary and thesaurus; Chicago Manual of Style; Writer’s Market; The Copyeditor’s Handbook, etc.); taking continuing education classes; and trying out different genres (business writing, creative writing, fiction, horror, romance, etc.). You’ll not only fine-tune your skills, but you’ll have a better sense of where your voice best fits in the writing world.

If you follow these five tips, you will stand out as a professional writer—not as a fly-by-night blogger, forum poster or article marketer—and you will gain confidence in your ability to market yourself and your writing and editing services. Happy writing!

Copyright © Dana E. Blozis 2008.

You can visit Dana at her website, Virtually Yourz. She offers professional freelance writing, editorial and marketing services honed by over two decades of experience in these roles within the financial services industry.

INTRODUCTION:

Lightning stretched across the dark sky, illuminating a large castle that stood atop a large cliff. Rain pounded heavily against the stone walls, echoing almost as loudly as the claps of thunder that filled the sky after each flash of lightning. In the center of the stone walls stood a large tower, covered in windows overlooking everything that surrounded the castle. To the south, was the ocean that crashed furiously against the rock cliff hundreds of feet below; to the west and east laid acres of forest as far as the eye could see; and to the north, lay some more forest, but at the end of the trees stood a small village.

Lightning cracked through the dark sky again, lighting up the ground for a split second for one traveler. The figure within the forest was tall and was wearing a large black raincoat, covering his entire body. As another crack of lightning forked across the sky, the figure looked up and watched the stream of light stretch itself across the night sky, as if it was reaching for the highest point on the castle. Lighting up the figure’s face, it was revealed to be man with very dark and cold eyes. His face was pale, but it couldn’t be told if it was normally like that, or from the freezing cold rain pounding against him.

He grinned as he saw the outline of the castle ahead of him, showing two large fangs that came out over his lips. “The throne will be mine Alexander, and there’s nothing you can do about it,” the man said to himself as he continued down the rain soaked dirt road towards the entrance to the castle. The man pushed open the large stone doors that blocked the entrance to the castle and stepped inside out of the rain. Pulling back his hood, he shook his head and got whatever water had accumulated in his black hair out. Removing his raincoat, he tossed it onto the hangers to the left of the front door, and then disappeared into the darkness of the castle.

~

The only lights that were on were found in the throne room, deep inside the castle walls. The size of the room looked like it could fit the entire village found to the north, inside, and it seemed like it was doing just that. The room was filled with people, wondering all over the place, talking to one another, or just leaning against the walls, waiting for something to happen. At the head of the room, sitting on a large golden chair, was a powerful looking man. His eyes were dark, like two droplets of dried blood, his short, straight black hair, partially covered his pale, studious face. He looked like he was very intelligent, and he was. He was wearing a black shirt that was lined with gold. Golden symbols ran down the sleeves meaning The Blood of the Covenant. His pants were black as well, and were lined with gold also.

In his right hand was a large glass full of a red liquid, his left hand was empty. Standing at his sides were two rather tall figures, cloaked in shadows, his guards. In front of him, stood a young girl with long dark blue hair that reached to her mid-back. Her face was also pale in color. She was wearing a black dress with dark blue lining. She had a look of seriousness in her face.

“Are you positive, my child?” asked the man sitting on the throne. His voice was filled with control and power. His dark eyes were fixed on the girl standing in front of him. “Yes my Lord,” said the girl. Her voice was very soft, enchanting, and quiet, yet was loud enough for half the room to hear what she was saying. The man sitting on the throne grunted and took a sip of his red liquid.

“So your father is on his way to kill me as we speak,” said the man, “Eivan, you fool…” he added as he put his glass on the arm rest of his chair before standing and walking towards the girl. “Rose, my child, he mustn’t see you here. If he finds out that you’ve warned me about his intentions, he’ll kill you as well” said the man. The girl looked up as he placed his hand under her chin and looked into her eyes. “I wouldn’t want any harm to come to you” he finished with a small smile. Large fangs also hung out of his mouth. She nodded and stood up in front of him.

“Where should I go my Lord?” she asked.

“Go to my tower. He’ll be coming here for me and won’t bother looking there,” said the man. He pointed to a doorway behind the throne. “Go my child, hurry before he arrives,” he said as he pushed her through the doorway and closed it behind her.

“Lord Alexander, do you intend to fight Eivan?” asked one of the cloaked guards standing beside the throne. Alexander turned from the hidden door to the man speaking to him and nodded his head.

“If it’s a fight he wants, it’s a fight he’ll get,” Alexander answered as he took his seat again and drank the rest of his red liquid. “More blood,” he ordered the other cloaked figure. The figure nodded, picked up the empty glass and disappeared into the shadows.

~

Eivan through open the throne room doors and stepped into the room. He looked around the room and noticed that over two hundred people were in the room, including Alexander and one of his guards. “Alexander!” Eivan shouted across the large room. “I’ve come for you,” he said as he slowly began to walk towards Alexander. His eyes darted across the faces of everyone he passed. He hadn’t expected this many people to be here, killing their ruler might be harder than it thought.

“Come for me?” Alexander asked as he took the glass of blood from his second cloaked figure after it appeared out of nowhere. He took a drink of it before placing it on the arm rest and standing up. “What’re your intentions Eivan?” Alexander asked.

“I’m tired of the way you’re ruling our people,” Eivan answered as he reached the stairs that ascended to the throne, where Alexander stood. “I’ve come to relieve you of your duties,” he added, staring into Alexander’s eyes. “Just me and you, right here, right now,” Eivan stated as he continued to stare up at Alexander.

Alexander looked over the large room; everyone in the room had their eyes fixed on him, wondering what he would do. Looking back to Eivan he nodded. “Alright,” he said. “Whoever wins gets the crown,” Alexander said as he removed his cloak and handed it to one of the guards. ‘Make sure Rose stays safe,’ he whispered into the guard’s ear. The guard nodded and disappeared into the shadows again. Turning to face Eivan again, Alexander drew a large sword from the sheath that hung from his waist. He didn’t’t give Eivan a countdown or anything, just appeared in front of him and slashed down at him.

Eivan stumbled back from the blade cutting into his shoulder. Grunting he drew his own weapon, a large sword as well, and clashed it against Alexander’s sword. Their swords clashed against each other until Eivan had managed to push Alexander against a wall. Kicking Alexander’s chest, he forced him to drop his weapon, now he had the upper hand. “Looks like you’re out of the crown,” Eivan said as he dug his blade into Alexander’s chest.

Coughing up packets of dark red blood, Alexander collapsed onto the floor, the blade still in his chest. He looked up at Eivan; his eyes were growing darker and darker until they had been clouded in darkness; his skin began to lose its color, getting lighter and lighter as his life dripped out onto the floor. His eyes quickly glanced around the room and settled on a female in the distance. Seeing what he wanted in his eyes, she quickly disappeared out of the room and headed towards the village to the north. Looking back to Eivan, Alexander grunted again. “Don’t get too comfortable. You’ll lose that crown eventually, my death will be avenged,” he said as he collapsed onto the blade, dead.

Eivan turned to look at the people in the room, shock filled their faces. “Bow to your new leader!” he ordered. The entire room stayed silent, but the sound of clothing shuffling could be heard as all two hundred of the people in the room bowed to him.

~500 Years Later~

Chapter 1

It had been a rather busy morning for the eager group of teenagers. They were planning a trip to a rented cottage for a week and were busy packing the essential goods for their trip. It had been organized by one of the teenager’s parents, and had been planned for that one family originally, just the parents, their son Tyler, and his girlfriend Katie. An unexpected turn of events left Tyler’s parents dropping out at the last moment. Still being able to go on this trip, Tyler and Katie both invited one of their friends to come along with them, and now they were packing the last of their things into Katie’s S.U.V before they would hit the road. “That’s the last of it,” Tyler said as he packed a cooler full of beer into the back of the S.U.V.

“Alright,” Katie said as she turned and faced the house, “You two ready in there?” she called to their friends that were waiting inside the house for them to be ready to leave. When the two of them exited the house with a small bag of things to keep them occupied on the drive down, Katie took that as a yes, and climbed into the driver’s seat. Once everyone else was in the vehicle and buckled up, Katie started the car and pulled out of the driveway and headed to where their cottage adventure would begin.

Tyler’s friend Brandon spent the car ride listening to his iPod and mouthing the lyrics to each song as they played by. Jasmine, Katie’s friend, spent the car ride playing Go Fish with Tyler on the CD compartment in between the driver’s and the passenger seat. After a few hours of driving, they finally arrived at their destination. The road to the cottage was covered by trees and completed secluded from civilization, but at the same time, had very beautiful scenery.

Pulling into the driveway of the Office, Katie climbed out and headed to the door. The Office Door was locked, so she rang the bell hanging from the wall next to her, and waited patiently for the owner to arrive and assist her. Tyler, Brandon, and Jasmine waited patiently for Katie to return from talking with the Owner of the Campsite with the keys to their cottage.

Katie stood at the door to the Office, which wasn’t much of an Office; it was more a full sized housing complex, with a long wooden desk in front of the door, which stopped customers from entering the rest of the owner’s house. Katie continued to stand outside the Office door; she had the unnerving feeling that she was being watched, but she couldn’t point out where this feeling was coming, and it was like it was coming from all around her.

She glanced around her, at the trees, around the corner, thinking she would find someone there, but she was the only person there. She reached up again and rang the bell hanging beside her, it chimed against the bronze casing, echoing through the silent forest around her. It was so startlingly loud that she almost jumped as it bonged against the bronze a few more times. Finally getting fed up with waiting, Katie walked along the side of the building to the first window she came to.

It was a little higher up than she was, but she managed to prop herself up on a small ledge that poked out where the wood met the ground. It gave her just the leverage she needed to be able to see into the window, but she couldn’t see anything. Her hair was in the way. Stepping down from the small wooden step she had found, she lowered her head, bringing all of her brown hair over her face, before she ran her hands through it, pulling it back and tying it into a ponytail with a black elastic that had been around her wrist. Once her hair was out of the way, she found the wooden step again, and lifted to look into the window.

Tyler snapped awake from the dream like state he was in as the air filled up with a cry. Whatever it was was louder than the bell Katie had been ringing. Brandon still had his iPod lodged into his ears blasting away so he hadn’t heard the cry, and Jasmine didn’t seem to hear it either. Tyler paid no attention to them and climbed out of the S.U.V and headed to the Office. Passing by a tree, he spotted Katie on the ground and quickly ran over to her, helping her to her feet. “What happened?” he asked, dusting her off. Katie took a deep breath, calming down the fast beating heart in her chest.

“I was looking into the window,” she paused, taking another long breath, “and there was a girl looking back at me,” she finished, taking another deep breath. Her heart slowly came to a slow beating pace, but her eyes were still wide from the shock of what she had seen. She showed him the little step she had found and watched him use it to look into the window himself. There was nothing there. It was covered by a thick black set of drapes, only thing he saw was his own reflection looking back at him.“There’s nothing there now,” he said as he climbed down from the small step. Katie was quiet. Behind them the leaves rustled.

“Can I help you?” asked a cold voice. It had been too quiet, and the unexpected voice cut through the silence like melting butter, too easily. Tyler jumped and almost fell over a root that was hidden under the orange and yellow leaves that had scattered the ground. Regaining his position Tyler turned to face the source of the voice that had startled him. He looked at the man behind him.

He was very tall and pale skinned; he had deep blue eyes that never seemed to come to an end. He was wearing a white dress shirt, buttoned up except for the one closest to his neck, he had that one undone, revealing his collar bone. Tyler noticed a red and black cross tattooed to his neck, which was clearly visible with the top button undone. The man was rather intimidating and had Tyler hesitating to answer the man.

“We’re looking for the owner. Have you seen him?” he eventually said after finding his way out of the man’s deep eyes.
Katie was still lost in the man’s eyes and paid no attention to the fact that they were having a conversation.
“I am the owner,” answered the man; his voice cutting into the silence again as it tried to envelop them again, cutting off all other sounds from their ears. “Can I help you?” he asked again. Tyler had switched places with Katie, he was now lost in the man’s eyes, unaware of the conversation at hand, while Katie continued to the conversation Tyler left.

“Yes. We reserved Cottage number five and would like to sign in for the week” she answered. The man’s cutting glance turned to her, as if releasing Tyler from its grasp and taking hers.
“Ah. So you must be Katie Brampton” he said before turning his gaze back to Tyler, “and you’re Tyler Stephenson?” he asked.
Katie nodded her head with a soft smile. The man smiled back, surprisingly with a reassuring smile. He stepped between them and unlocked the door, and invited them in. Even though Katie and Tyler were right behind him, it seemed like time had been frozen for a split second while the man positioned himself behind the counter in front of them. He leaned partially against his side of the counter, in his hand were four sets of keys, another thing he seemed to freeze time to get, he hadn’t been holding them a second ago.

“There are still four of you? Correct?” he asked, his eyes no longer seemed endless, now they held a small hint of confusion in them.
Katie reached out and took hold of them. “Yes, though we had a slight change of plans”.
“Oh? Like what?”
“The parents coming with us couldn’t make it, so we invited two friends instead”.
“Oh yes. Mrs. Stephenson informed me of that”
“Oh she did? Alright then,” Katie said. She hadn’t known Tyler’s mom had called and told this man that the plans had been changed, but the reservation was going to be kept.
“Mr. Stephenson, please sign these papers,” said the man as he slipped out a pad of paper and a pen towards Tyler. “If you’re going to be playing music, it needs to be either off or turned down low enough that it won’t bother the neighbours at eleven o’clock,” the man said. He recited the rules of the campsite to them, clearly memorizing them from having to tell so many people them every time someone new signed in. This campground was a rather popular spot this year; Tyler was surprised they had managed to get reservations at such short notice.

After signing all the papers Tyler slid the pen and paper back to the man. “Alright, that should just about do it. Hopefully you enjoy the cottage,” he said as he slid the paper under the counter and pushed away from the counter. “If you ever need any assistance or need something answered, I’m sure someone will be here to help you,” he assured them with that soft smile again. Katie smiled back and then left the Office with Tyler and headed back to her S.U.V which was parked just at the end of the driveway.
“What took you guys so long?” Brandon asked as they climbed into the vehicle. Katie didn’t pay any attention to Brandon; she let Tyler answer to him.
“Owner wasn’t there. Guess he was busy elsewhere,” Tyler answered.
Brandon shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t really care, just wanted something to say. As Katie pulled the car out of the drive way, Tyler spotted two females standing just outside the Office. They were too far for him to be able to see what they looked like, but he could tell they were female by the way they were standing. What were they looking at? Tyler asked himself, but shrugged his shoulders, wasn’t that important.

Cottage number five wasn’t far from the Office building. It was fairly big, would easily fit the four of them. Pulling the vehicle into the driveway, Katie leaned back in her chair. “I sure hope this week goes easier than meeting the owner went,” she said with a sigh of relief, happy to finally be here. The cottage was painted a dark brown; the porch out front was the normal colour of wood, a lighter brown. To the left of the door, was a large window that looked into the living room which was decorated skimpily. There were three chairs that had a plain grey cushioning to them. The couch had the same coloured cushions. To the left of the couch was a door leading into a single bedroom. Plain white sheets covered the mattress, gripping the corners like the wind would blow the sheets away.

To the right of the front door was another window that overlooked the eating table. It was simple wood, a light brown colour. Five chairs sat around it, two on the left, three on the right, and on at the end. Behind the table was the door to the washroom, to the left of that door was the master bedroom with a king sized bed covered with ruby red sheets. To the right of the bathroom door was the other single room, decorated the same as the other single bedroom. To the right of the table, was the kitchen. There was a wooden counter that lined the outside wall. There was a fairly new looking microwave sitting in one corner and a toaster sitting in the other. In the center of the counter was a fairly clean sink. The owner must have went out of his way to make sure that each cottage was thoroughly cleaned and inspected before and after each of his customers used it.

Above the sink was another window looking onto the porch that sat out front. Few cupboards lined the bottom of the counter, housing frying pans and other pots and pans. On the opposite side of the counter was an old looking stove, but had been made out to look presentable, even in its old age. A single squared counter sat between the stove and the fridge, which was also brand new, but made to look newer than it was. The entire cottage was spotlessly clean, and Katie was amazed at the quality of the work put into making sure everything looked presentable, down to the last corner behind the hot water tank in the washroom.

“I call this room!” Brandon shouted as he ran across the room to the bedroom across from the master bedroom, to the right of the bathroom. He flopped onto the bed and moaned. “Wow, this is extremely comfortable,” he said, face buried into the pillow. That left the other single room, and the double room, and three of them. Jasmine rolled her eyes playfully.“Looks like you two get to sleep together after all” she said as she picked up her bags and carried them into the other single room off to the left of the living room.

Katie giggled and hugged Tyler. “Maybe it was better that you parents didn’t come,” Katie said as she pressed her lips against his softly. Tyler’s parents weren’t completely convinced that they were ready to sleep together, so had his parents came with them Katie and Tyler would have been separated into the two single rooms while his parents got the master bedroom. Tyler wrapped his arms around Katie and pressed his lips against hers. He was going to enjoy this week.

~

“Oh!” said a startled voice, “I’m sorry, am I interrupting?” asked the voice. The voice was soft and female; it seemed to just glide across the air like a feather. She was standing outside of cottage number five and just happened to get there just as Tyler and Katie began to kiss one another.

Tyler heard her voice and broke the kiss to turn his head and look outside at the girl talking to them. He was surprised to notice that she was one of the girls he had seen when they were pulling out of the Office driveway. Her hair went to about her mid-back and was a bright red. Her skin was just as pale as the owners, maybe a little less. Her eyes were also blue, but they didn’t seem to just go on forever into the back of her head, sending you into a trance. She was wearing a black blouse, and a skirt that was the exact same shade of red as her hair was. “No, it’s alright. What can we do for you?” Tyler asked as he looked over her.

Katie looked from Tyler to the new girl, kind of annoyed that she had broken up their kiss, but didn’t show it. “My father owns the campground and I come around regularly when new people check in to see if they need help with anything” she said, softly and innocently. She continued to stand outside of the cottage, waiting for them to allow her in before she would enter. Tyler motioned for her to enter with his hand as he let go of Katie and stepped away from her. “My name’s Taylor,” she introduced herself, holding out a hand to him. Tyler took her hand and gently shook it.
“I’m Tyler.”
“And I’m Katie.”
“Nice to meet you two…” she trailed off for a moment, looking around the empty cottage, “Weren’t there two more with you?” she asked, a confused tone in her voice. Tyler nodded his head as he let his hand drop back to his side. Taylor’s hand returned to her pockets.

“My friend Brandon, he’s probably laying in his bed listening to his music, like always,” Tyler responded, as he pointed to the bedroom door that led to Brandon’s room. The door was closed now, seemed he wanted some quiet to listen to his music, “Not sure what Jasmine’s up to though.”
“Probably trying to find somewhere to put all her clothing,” Katie answered with a laugh. She knew it was true too.
“So is there anything I can help you with?” Taylor asked. Her ocean blue eyes digging into his deep green eyes. Tyler thought for a moment or two.
“You could show me how to drive the boat,” he suggested.
Taylor nodded her head. “Alright,” she said as she headed outside. Tyler eagerly followed after her. Katie smiled a bit and knocked on Jasmine’s door.
“Me and Tyler are going to learn to drive the boat” she told her before she followed behind Taylor.

“I should warn you. There are certain islands you should stay away from,” Taylor warned as they walked down to the dock. The sun was high in the clear blue sky. A few clouds scattered the sky, but they didn’t seem like they wanted to be friends with the sun, they kept away from the sun. There was a small, cool breeze blowing around them, rustling the leaves of the trees. A few birds chirped from atop branches, their songs filled the air, soothing the heat. The beach was empty, only thing that occupied it were a few beach chairs that were scattered across the sand. Just off the shore was an orange and blue water trampoline, that must have been anchored or it would have blown away from the breeze that was blowing around them.
“Why?” Katie asked. Rocks also littered the sandy beach, Katie used these to stay off the sand, and she hated sand in her shoes, and knew she would get some in them if she walked across the sand.

“Can’t say they’re too fond of us building a camp ground on their doorstep,” Taylor responded as she carefully made her way across the dock. The wind had whipped up a few waves, nothing too big, but just enough to rock the wooden dock back and forth slightly. She pointed to a boat that had a large number five plastered on the side. The boat was a dark blue with the word “Speed Craft” inked on the side in black like graffiti. All the other boats around them looked almost identical, except for they were different colours and had the number of the cottage they came with plastered on them. Tyler helped Katie climb into the boat then helped Taylor before he climbed in after them. “It’d probably be best if you stayed as far away from them as you could get. I can’t guarantee they’ll be happy if you do get too close,” she added as she sat Tyler in the driving seat and began to instruct him on how to drive it.

Tyler did as she told him to do, and pretty soon the boat was slicing through the waves and skimming across the lake. “I’ve been in my parent’s boat a lot, but they never taught me how to drive it” Tyler said as he turned the boat and continued to cut through waves as they crashed into the nose of the boat.
Taylor smiled. “It’s really easy, once you get the hang of it. Like riding a bike,” she said with a small laugh. She leaned over Tyler and ran her fingers down his arm and then took hold of his hand, pulling the boat to a stop. Tyler’s eyes widened a bit as she did this, but Katie didn’t seem to notice, so he didn’t say anything about it.
“That house there. You’re going to want to stay off that island regardless what happens. You’d be better off swimming back to the beach if your boat broke down there” she stated. That perked Katie’s interest. “Why? What’s so bad about that place?” she asked, intrigued now. “The man who owns that place, is rather…” she trailed off, searching for the correct word that would describe him, “Last year, someone didn’t heed the warning, and they were shot to death almost instantly,” she added, hoping that would detour them from wanting to land there. Katie gulped.

~

Tyler placed the boat back in its place at the dock. The wind had steadily picked up and the waves had gotten too much for the small boat. Twice on the trip back, the waves had almost toppled them over, crashing against the side of the boat, like they were furious, angry, scared of the boat. The wooden docks were rocking more than they had when they had first boarded the boat, but they safely managed to make it to the sand. Tyler turned to Taylor after they made it off the rocking wooden docks, “So just stay away from any island that has a house on it, right?”
“Mhm…”
“Alright, thanks a lot.”
“Don’t mention it, just doing my job,” Taylor said as she waved farewell to the two of them before she turned and headed down the beach towards her house, the Office. Tyler watched her leave until she had disappeared behind a tree in the distance.

“Well that was interesting,” Tyler stated as he took Katie’s hand in his and walked with her towards their cottage. Katie nodded her head in agreement. “Hopefully the wind dies down and we can go on a nice little boat ride after dinner,” Tyler suggested. He thought it was a good idea, however if the wind continued to blow as furiously as it picked up to by this point, it might not be a good idea. Katie nodded her head again. “That would be nice,” she said as she leaned against Tyler, placing her head on his shoulder as she walked next to him.

~

The name’s Andrew, I’m 18, turning 19 in February, I love to read anything I can get my hands on, and write anything that comes to mind; People say I’m fun, exciting, and interesting, to say the least; I’m an addict of music, can’t live a sane life without it, and I listen to quite a lot of different genres; and I love to watch Movies. My website’s called Anime Gallery. You can read more of my writing there.

Almost every parent has a similar video tucked away in their collection - their kiddie boogying on down to some pop music and having a blast. What began as a simple sharing of a video by a proud parent however has ended up in court though for another round. As PCMag reports, this protracted saga is still ongoing.

It all began when the Feb 2007 YouTube video of a baby dancing to a Prince song was subjected to Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA) takedown notices. Universal had got upset at the use of their artist’s music in it and complained to YouTube that it was a violation of copyright. YouTube dutifully took it down.

The child’s mother fired back a DMCA counter-notification, saying it was “fair use” under copyright law and therefore authorized. Back up it went. Stephanie Lenz, the mother, then filed suit against Universal in court. Universal tried and succeeded in getting the case dismissed, only for her to refile and the merry go round to begin again in mid April of this year.

So what’s “fair use” consist of anyway? My understanding is that fair use allows a certain small amount of a copyrighted work to be used freely without requiring express permission from the owner. For example, if you wanted to write an essay and quote an excerpt from a book to illustrate a point, that would be considered fair use…maybe.

There’s a reason I say maybe. You see fair use is a murky world with no plain definition of what is and is not acceptable under those terms. There’s no certain percentage you can use, no limitation on the word count laid down. If you look for solid numbers to make sure you’re within the guidelines, as far as I know you’d be hard pressed to find them.

Even the US Copyright Office page on fair use admits there’s no hard and fast ruling on it. Their best advice? If in doubt, contact the copyright owner for permission.

The closest thing to a definition they have is this, and I quote:

The 1961 Report of the Register of Copyrights on the General Revision of the U.S. Copyright Law cites examples of activities that courts have regarded as fair use: “quotation of excerpts in a review or criticism for purposes of illustration or comment; quotation of short passages in a scholarly or technical work, for illustration or clarification of the author’s observations; use in a parody of some of the content of the work parodied; summary of an address or article, with brief quotations, in a news report; reproduction by a library of a portion of a work to replace part of a damaged copy; reproduction by a teacher or student of a small part of a work to illustrate a lesson; reproduction of a work in legislative or judicial proceedings or reports; incidental and fortuitous reproduction, in a newsreel or broadcast, of a work located in the scene of an event being reported.”

Copyright protects the particular way an author has expressed himself; it does not extend to any ideas, systems, or factual information conveyed in the work.

The latest from the courtroom is that the judge says fair use needs to be considered before DMCA takedown notices are distributed. Where does that leave you then?

I’d venture to say that you have nothing but your common sense really to guide you. If you think the author might get mad at how much you’re using, then that’s a pretty good yardstick that it’s too much in my opinion. A snippet or paragraph here or there would be acceptable but not entire chapters, for example. I’m no expert but that would be my interpretation of it.

According to the PCMag article, the feeling is that Universal was trying to placate their star who’d been making noises about his music being found online. Would Prince really grudge a baby dancing to his music, maybe even a future fan in the making? I think that’s pretty sad if it’s true that’s what was behind it.

Let’s hope it’s not. The video only lasts twenty nine seconds in its entirety. I’d hate to see mute recordings of kids partying in the future or even worse, that no one felt they could share them at all for fear of reprisals.

Party on, lil’ dude!

Among the most laborious things about submitting your piece of work can be keeping track of what you sent off wherever and when. Without some form of system in situ, you will discover yourself drowning in no time. Before you recognize it you’ve got papers or files everyplace with mysterious notes upon them, reminding you of particular stipulations from different publishing houses. It can all become very messy, very fast.

It’s utterly essential, especially if you’re dispatching simultaneous submissions, to maintain a record. A lot of editors do accept simultaneous submissions for instance on the understanding that if your manuscript is accepted elsewhere before they respond to you, then you advise them of that.

It is not merely polite and respectful to conduct yourself in that manner. No editor desires to squander their time going over a submission, simply to discover once they state they are interested that you’re already bound by some other contractual agreement. However if you sent off a slew of submissions en masse and can not recollect who required what in their guidelines, you’re asking for it when they clash. Do not anticipate any editor to be hotfooting it to read your submissions in the days ahead if you can’t be good mannered enough to follow their rules of thumb perfectly.

The good news is there’s an answer. It’s called The Writer’s Database: Market and Submission Tracker. You are able to add marketplaces, keep lists of your submissions and who they were dispatched to, update their status when you get word back from them, even keep track of how much income you have brought in with assorted manuscripts or articles.

The Add a Market section permits you to hold on to every last one of the editor’s particulars in a single place, company by company. It includes name, contact data, rates of pay, response time, whether it is online submission or a postal submission, what they accept (reprints, simultaneous submissions and so forth), contest and anthology submissions and any entrance money charged, plus room for additional notes.

The beauty of this submission tracker system is you do not need to return to every editor’s guidelines on every internet site you have ever added to your Favorites to check up on them all anytime you’ve something fresh to submit. If you need, say, somebody that takes on humor or a piece below 500 words, you could add tags to your entry that facilitate finding them at a glance. Using this method means you  only need do a speedy search within your markets.

(Whenever you have not visited their site for a while, it’s advisable to make certain the guidelines have not altered in that time obviously. The Submission Tracker saves you from having to plough through and through virtually hundreds of them if you’re anything like me to find a suitable one.)

They even have an area where you are able to browse shared markets. Other people have added these to their personal lists and generously made up their minds to share them in public. You’ve the choice naturally whether to share your own with others or not and any private stuff like your notes can be concealed from their view in this mode. Therefore you can still chip in something for the community’s benefit whilst preserving the confidentiality of your notes.

There’s a lot more features incorporated into this tracker. A nice one is you’ll be able to send off a submission to your selected markets once you add the piece to your own database. There’s entertaining and valuable resources as well, such as charting your word count daily on both how much you have been penning on a particular day or have compiled in total up to now. These are useful for nurturing your commitment to working on a regular basis.

See what you think. It is free to register and utilize as aforementioned. Please do toy with donating a couple of pennies to The Writers Database as a thank you if you deem them worthy. They say it’s welcomed but not required. I hope you find this writer’s tool handy! Feel free to comment on this and any other article here.

Kay can be found hollering atop the hill on writers, writing and anything she feels like at Hill Holler

I recently wrote a short story that failed. To write those words down on the page is clearly not an easy thing to do. No one likes to fail, especially a woman like me, who believes the work I do defines who and what I am, my place in the flotsam of life. And in contemporary America where literary success is defined by how famous you are, how big your advance, or by the number of books you have published, it’s hard to admit failure at all.

The story shouldn’t have failed, which is just one of the many reasons why writing is so hard. The theme, which focuses on the hypocrisy of religion in America, is significantly complex. The protagonist, a precocious nine-year-old black girl from Boston who is taken under the wing of four white born-again Christians, is smart and likeable. And her four foils, each of whom I tried to develop as individuals instead of as one collective antagonist, infuse the story with both humor and simmering resentment. I worked on the story on and off again for more than eighteen months, going over each line, honing each word with precision like a dentist drilling away at decay, applied apt metaphors and employed fresh language, used repetition and rhythm in spare, appropriate ways. I relied, that is, on craft.

Part of the problem began when I realized that I had grown bored of writing the same characters with whom I had success in the past. White women in their 20s or 30s, well-educated, middle-class, perhaps with just a trace of ethnicity, women not unlike myself, struggling with feeling isolated or cut off, working to make sense of themselves in this post-feminist world where choice abounds, yet where so many of us still remain desperately unhappy, longing for some unnamed fulfillment. I liked these women, knew them very well, worked hard to protect them, nurtured their neurosis and eccentricities, celebrated when at the end of each story, they made some small step towards self-awareness, or happiness, or freedom. These were characters that helped me publish my first two-dozen short stories, who dogged and followed me into my recently issued memoir. But I felt it was time to let them go, to create a character completely different from myself, to write that breakout story, the one that would herald me as a fresh, new talent, a latter day Flannery O’Connor who could write of prejudiced old ladies in purple and green hats and murderer misfits with equal enmity and compassion.

But you say, that is ridiculous–time or critics or readers decide whether or not you are good or new or fresh. It’s not up to you, and such thoughts therefore are taboo, something you have no right to be messing with. Instead, you should applaud yourself for taking a risk, for trying to take yourself to the next level. But you say, that’s foolish, to place so much pressure on one short story, one idea.

Yes, it is. Yet for those of us who are plagued by self-doubt, who subsist on bravado rather than true courage, who still care too much about what others might think or say, such pressure bubbles and boils within us, until without warning, it rises up like a flood, casting us adrift in swift waters, drowning the more creative self, and leaving only judgment and silence in its wake.

For as I read the story over and over again, finetuning a particular sentence, niggling over each individual word, adding yet one more joke, clutching to craft as the oarsman clutches for a jagged rock or stray branch as her canoe is swept down the rushing river, the focus suddenly became about my survival as a writer rather than writing itself. The story was told by someone numbed by cold and fear who had been capsized out on that river for a long time, someone who was going through the motions of creation in the hopes that creation itself would take over. Abandoned on the cold bare riverbank, I kept trying to start a fire to warm me. But even burnished with color, a few stray leaves gathered from the riverside will never ignite if the wood beneath them is wet through.

“Now hold on, hold on,” a low buzz hums in my ear. “You can’t just leave it at that—comparing the craft of writing to a canoe adrift. It’s facile, and just too damn obvious. You haven’t yet earned it—you need to dig deeper than that—search for something richer, truer. You need a metaphor that’s not been overused, comparing writing to coconuts perhaps or maybe brown mushrooms. Yes, you are a pig, a greedy pig down on the ground sniffing for truffles, your pink noisy stout roots about in the dirt, tossing aside words like dried up weeds, searching out the few choice treats, those sweet fragile morsels that dissolve in your mouth almost before you can grasp them.”

And while I am wallowing down here in the mud, my pink pig ears alert in case some other animal enters my territory, threatening to gather up truffles more effectively than me, I must admit something else as well. It’s not that I wrote a single story that failed. In point of fact, since my memoir was published more than two years ago, I have yet to complete anything new. I have dozens of half-started stories, essays written three-quarters through, a novel that came to an abrupt halt in chapter three.

Even before I saw the book’s four-color cover, before the reviews came in, or the book tour began, the damage was done. I was a published author, something I had hoped for and labored over for fifteen years, and now that it had happened, I was terrified. Because now I knew just enough about craft, knew just enough about what makes narrative work, to doubt my own abilities. Because now I had to deliver—whatever I wrote had to be “worthy” of a published author. Every word had to shimmer like glass, shine like fine silver, or readers would know at once that I was a fraud.

This is the challenge many emerging writers face. Why perhaps eighty percent of all first-time novelists never publish a second book. We have learned just enough to realize how much further we need to go. We know just enough to respect and marvel at other writers’ work and wonder why we ever thought we could write as well as them, or even as well as we did last year. So we cover it up, try to bury our doubt in craft.

“It’s has to be right. It must be right. I will make it right,” the litany in my head goes and with it goes spontaneity, freshness, challenge, all those reasons why I wanted to attempt such a story in the first place.

For months, I carried around the ending of the story, how I thought it must end, was slated to end, forcing the characters to go there even when they fought me, clamored for me to let them breathe. But I believed in the power of structure, in linear narrative, and was determined to put them in their place. Thus craft took me away from the organic in favor of form, in lieu of my determination that this story would be about a particular thing which I had set out to express.

Perhaps the topic of religious hypocrisy was too big for me to handle in a short story— after all, Hawthorne needed an entire novel to explore the meaning of that Scarlet A. Perhaps deep down, I really didn’t know what I felt about the dangers of fundamentalism, had a visceral response, yes, but never really thought through what it meant. Certainly I put too much emphasis on my need to write something TIMELY, something IMPORTANT, a desire which in itself is deadly. All I know is that week after week as I worked on the story, moving paragraphs around, rewriting line after line, my passion for the piece, and thus the piece itself, slowly died. A sort of creeping paralysis set in. I wrote and rewrote each word, but the result was never any different, the piece never really grew legs. Yet I couldn’t abandon it. This was to be my breakout story. If I couldn’t do this, then, of course, I was an abject failure. I wouldn’t be able write anything else, let alone publish anything else.

When I first begin writing, I never thought about publication. Partly it was because publication was for other people, those anointed few with talent, with last names that spoke of greatness such as James or Fitzgerald, Didion or Atwood. Mostly it was because writing itself was so exciting, a chance to explore myself and other worlds at the same time that it never dawned on me that anyone but me could possibly find it of value. My head was crammed full with words, ideas, snippets of dialogue, why one character would betray another, how I was going to show that betrayal. I would type away in my college dormitory on my old Smith Corona typewriter, the clacking keys echoing against the white walled austerity of my room (the student next door, a pre-Med, complained to the RA how my working kept her up at night until the RA ruled that I couldn’t type past midnight). Then I would lay awake in bed letting the words come at me, hungering until I could break free and give it another go first thing the next morning, eschewing my 8:35 a.m. philosophy class so that I could keep writing. I never had writer’s block back then, never had doubts, never lacked ideas to write about, to explore. I didn’t know enough about the writing process, about craft, to question what I was doing. I didn’t know that I was supposed to build a character over time, or that titles should reflect theme, to establish setting early on or that repetition helped hold paragraphs or ideas together.

An actress friend of mine once told me to successfully create a character we must begin as though we know nothing about the world, about narrative, about craft. Yet too often we cling to craft because we have worked so very hard to learn it in the first place. We cling to craft because it is what we have been taught in our writing workshops and panel discussions and in pompous self-help books for writers. We cling to craft because in the end it will allow us—okay, yes, I will return to that same stale metaphor—to right that listing canoe. But in my determination to make sure that my story stayed on course, I somehow forgot why I put to sea in the first place.

Here is the lesson then, the small, glorious victory I achieved by at long last completing a new work, this essay I share with you now. The key for the writer who has started realizing publication is to trick yourself into being a beginner again, to relegate craft to the background, to revision three or four, to sent it to the time-out chair, or to the locker room for a long, hot shower, so it won’t corrupt that delicate, sweet moment of excitement, that first adventurous journey that must inevitably begin, “Once upon a time….”

Sandi Sonnenfeld is a fiction writer and essayist. Her memoir, This is How I Speak (2002: Impassio Press), was a Booksense 76 finalist and for which she was named a 2002 Celebration Author by the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association.  Her work has appeared in more than 30 literary magazines, including Soujourner, Hayden’s Ferry Review, ACM, Voices West, Summerset Review and New Works Review.

Typical artwork shows a naked man and woman, with or without some judiciously placed fig leaves. Invariably, there’s a tree, some fruit and a snake. But every artist has overlook- ed the single most important aspect of Genesis: the fact that Eve became “with child”—pregnant with her first born son.
The word “genesis” means “birth,” and since Eve was the mother of us all, God’s injunction to “be fruitful and multiply” was her sole responsibility. But when Boca Raton sculptor, Norman Gardner, depicted Eve with an unborn fetus visible inside her belly, his long, successful career hit a brick wall.

His poignant images of babies in utero were routinely rejected by art gallery owners and museum curators alike. His prenatal work was even refused a booth at his local outdoor art festival as being “unfit for public viewing.” As a result of this inexplicable negative attitude, Gardner decided to search the historical archives to see if he could find the reasons for this widely held irrational reaction.

He soon discovered the fact that during the past 2000 years, the perfectly normal and natural condition of pregnancy has been hidden behind a veil of taboo, superstition and stark, mortified embarrassment. It’s no accident that the Spanish word for pregnant is “embarazada.”

This attitude was so pervasive, that a stork myth was concocted to hide the truth about where babies really come from. And as recently as 1955, the word “pregnant” was not allowed to be spoken on national TV.

In today’s high-tech, sophisticated society, childbirth is now routinely portrayed on The Discovery Channel TV programs like “In the Womb,” and “From Conception to Birth.” Movies like “Knocked Up” are considered harmless romantic comedies. But sadly, our nation’s art establishment is still stuck in the muck of the middle ages and likely to remain so for many years to come.

Norman Gardner can be contacted on 561-447-9922.