Yet Another Plea for Taking Pride in What We Publish

The responsibility of independent authors to proof and edit their books prior to publication is something I harp about on a regular basis. I've made plenty of mistakes in my own books and am very appreciative of the readers who write to me and point things out. The great thing about the digital text platform is that you can make corrections on an on-going basis. it's not like print where the mistakes are in 500 books in crates in your garage.

To be fair, there are plenty of mistakes in traditionally published books, too. I reviewed a book published by Knopf last summer that was riddled with appalling mistakes (“as the car began to skid, he pumped the breaks”)! I am fully aware that finding perfection in a 100,000 word novel is daunting. This is compounded by the fact that opinions vary on punctuation and there are people who have pet peeves about strange word construction. The simple truth is that while the digital age has created an open platform for authors to publish it has also created an open platform for readers to critique and critique they will. And rightly so.

For a writer who is also an avid reader this presents a challenge. In my quest to make my published work as clean and tight as possible, I have spoken and written a lot encouraging other independent authors to be hyper-vigilant about their work. Many of them are but there is also a contingent who claim that their readers don't care about proper spelling and grammar – they just want a good story. What I have found through my own experience and what has been told to me by other writers is that if you give a critical review of a book, pointing out a disregard for editing and proofing, you are opening yourself up to potential attack on the part of that writer's loyal fans. I've read more reports than I want to about writers who critiqued a book they read and then had their own books deluged with nasty 1-star reviews.

In the past I've written blog posts about indie books giving my honest opinion. Usually my reviews are positive for the simple reason that if a book is badly written I won't finish it and I don't review books I don't finish. However, I do come across books that I liked in terms of plot or characters or atmosphere that still have big flaws. I have a choice – I can either not review the book or I can say that I liked the book BUT and point out the flaws. This happened last night with a book I read on the recommendation of someone in a book reading group. It was an indie book that was very romantic ghost story and there was much to like but the book was just loaded with errors and the errors were consistent throughout. For one thing the author did not know the difference between “past” and “passed” or between “effect” and “affect.” I don't often criticize punctuation and I often give passes on the occasional typo. but these kinds of flaws re more difficult for me to overlook.

So the question is, do I point out the flaws and risk getting hammered in return? Or do I just let it slide and take the position that readers are on their own when they buy these books?

Most of the indie writers I know take great pride in the quality of work they put out. A lot of us feel like we have to work twice as hard to be considered half as good as trad published writers. But all of us are stigmatized by sloppy writing, sloppy editing, and sloppy proofing. So, once again, I am making a plea to indie writers to take pride in their work, to proof and run spell check and have some decent beta-readers. Nobody expects perfection but can we all strive for competence?

Thanks for reading.

Writers On Writing: Beth Dolgner

Books that Inspired Me: Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury

Ray Bradbury inspired the very first manuscript I began, so much so that the working title was A Nod to Mr. Bradbury. I tried to mimic his writing style as the story formed, but I never got further than a few chapters because I realized that I had to find my own writing style, rather than imitating someone else’s.

And yet, the voice of Ray Bradbury still whispers in my ear as I write my own manuscripts. Of all his works, Something Wicked This Way Comes has been the most inspirational. I have found my voice—my style of writing—but the lessons I learned from Something Wicked This Way Comes are still guiding me.

Above all else, what I admire most about the book and, really, all of Bradbury’s stories, is how he weaves the fantastic with the mundane. It’s so easy for me as a reader to fall into his world, where magic popping up in the middle of Green Town, Illinois, seems perfectly ordinary. I believe that when Cooger & Dark’s Pandemonium Shadow Show comes to town, they’re more than just a carnival. The waxwork witch really can wander the town, and the merry-go-round, run in reverse, really can take years off your life.

That seamless blending of the possible and the impossible is something I strive for in my own work. I may not write about dark carnivals, but I do try to make my readers believe in the ghosts, demons and other creatures in my books.

The other thing I love about Something Wicked This Way Comes is the language Bradbury uses to set a scene. He doesn’t need long, detailed descriptions to evoke a vivid image in the reader’s mind. One sentence from Bradbury is equal to a whole paragraph from any other author. A perfect example of this is in the first paragraph of chapter one, when a lightning rod salesman arrives in Green Town just before a storm. Bradbury writes, “Somewhere not so far back, vast lightnings stomped the earth.”

My first reaction to such prose is, “If only I could write like that!” Well, I’m sure I could, if I tried hard enough. But I shouldn’t because that’s Bradbury’s voice, not mine. Instead, I’ll let his storytelling continue to whisper to me as I write my own stories. After all, for me, that is the true magic of Something Wicked This Way Comes.

___

Beth Dolgner is a writer, editor, and overly-enthusiastic costumer. She is the author of the Betty Boo, Ghost Hunter paranormal romance series and Manifest, a young adult steampunk novel. Beth and her husband live in Atlanta, Georgia, with five cats. Find Beth online at bethdolgner.com and on Twitter at twitter.com/bethdolgner. Get Ghost of a Threat, Book 1 of the Betty Boo, Ghost Hunter Series. 

Depraved Heart is on its way...

It seems like I have been working on this book forever but I finally received the proofreader/editor's revisions and the manuscript is now in production! It will be available in both paperback and digital format by mid-April. I love this story. It is both romantic and suspenseful. In fact my proofreader said he got so caught up in the story he had to just read it through before he could actually work on it.

So yesterday the web page for Depraved Heart went live. You can read a synopsis and there is a link to the Prologue and first chapter. I think the three main characters, Syd Jupiter, a former NFL lineman, his fifteen year old daughter Anjelica, and Tempest Hobbs, the art curator who is also an empath, are all fascinating characters. This is the first time I've written a teenage girl as a main character and it was both exciting and challenging creating her. She is a sweet girl who has everything in a material sense and yet longs for a family. This is the book description:

          In the latter part of the 19th century Boston banking tycoon W.Q. Ravenscroft built a mansion on the island of Hephzibah Regrets off the coast of Massachusetts between Salem and Gloucester. Hathor, as it was called, rivaled the estates of Marblehead and Gloucester's Eastern Point in opulence and luxury. Ravenscroft filled it with art and sculpture as a gift for his wife Lisette. For decades Hathor was fascinating both for its remarkable art collections and for the rumors of wild parties. W.Q.'s son Wyatt continued the tradition of collecting art and lavish entertaining. Hathor was a playground for the wealthy – until Wyatt's daughter Rosalind eloped with an island fisherman who had a bad reputation.

          Now, in the twenty-first century, things have changed at Hathor. Sixteen years earlier, during a party in the formal garden, Wyatt's grandson, the distinguished dancer Raven Silver, was shot and killed. Raven's twin sister Rachel, who was his dance partner through a decade of performances with Boston Ballet and American Ballet Theater, married the great NFL running back Syd Jupiter. But when Jupiter is convicted of the depraved heart murder of his brother-in-law, Hathor began its slow decline.
          Tempest Hobbs is a Salem art curator with a troubled past of her own. Tempest is an empath who senses the feelings and thoughts of others, sometimes with punishing results to her own well-being. Following a traumatic situation during which she was confined to a psychiatric hospital, Tempest is home recovering when she receives a letter from Hathor. Syd Jupiter has been paroled from prison and is taking up residence there for the summer. Wyatt is dead and he has left his entire estate to his great-grandaughter, Anjelica, Syd and Rachel's fifteen year old child. Wyatt has also appointed Syd executor of the estate and in this capacity Syd invites Tempest to spend the summer at Hathor helping to sort out, identify, and evaluate the vast art collection.
Tempest welcomes the opportunity for isolation. She will live at Hathor where the only other residents will be Syd, Anjelica, and Syd's mother Marie-Isobel, the beautiful but enigmatic owner of a Santeria shop in New Orleans where Syd grew up.
          In the fishing village on Hephzibah Regrets the locals gather every night in the Riptide where men drink and talk fishing, women spin and knit, and everyone relishes the rumors and tales about Hathor. Among the villagers is Miles Wainwright, a fisherman who was the only witness to the murder of Raven Silver, Audrey Nettleton, Hathor's housekeeper who was also Raven's lover, and three generations of islanders whose lives have been impacted by the residents of Hathor with all their secrets, deceptions, love affairs, madness, and mysterious deaths.


I am very excited about releasing this book and look forward to your comments!

Thanks for reading.

Guest Blog from Ray: Hurricane Celia - 41 Years Later

This guest blog from our good buddy Ray Beimel in Pennsylvania is a story from his midshipman days while stationed in Corpus Christi when a hurricane blew in:

Hurricane Celia – as remembered from 41 years ago

            In August of 1970 I was a Midshipman in the Penn State Navy ROTC unit. That summer we spent three weeks learning about amphibious warfare from the Marines at Naval Amphibious Base Little Creek. Then we were flown to Corpus Christi Naval Air Station to spend three weeks learning about naval aviation. We were there for a little over two weeks when word came down that a hurricane was approaching. This is my memoir about that. It was 41 years ago and some details are hazy. I don’t have anyone to consult with to fill in the lost details.

            There were 37 of us from Penn State. We were by far the largest contingent of midshipmen there. Some schools had as few as 4. We were housed in the old Bachelor Officers Quarters built during World War 2. From the front steps we could look down to the sea wall by the bay. The officers club was down that way and we had spent many a night there drinking heavily and staggering back.

            Little Creek had been tough. We ran a lot on sand so many of us had painful shin splints. But it was fun too. We got to invade Virginia by every means possible except parachute. We swam ashore, landed in rubber rafts, landing craft, amphibious tractors, and helicopters. There were obstacle courses and tactical exercises and shooting and all kinds of things that young men and small boys enjoy. The Marines in charge of us treated us well enough. Some of the others did not, but on the whole, it was a good experience.

            Corpus Christi was a different thing entirely. There were a lot more rules, a lot more military Mickey Mouse. We had to march in step anytime there were two or more of us. We had to salute any car with an office sticker on it no matter who was in the car. More often than not, it was a young officer’s wife with a couple of kids in the back on her way home from the commissary. She generally giggled. We generally didn’t. There were a lot of rules like that and after the relative freedom accorded us by the Marines, we chafed under all that chickenshit. There were a few saving graces. One was the food. The mess hall there was one of the best in the Navy. Compared to the grub at Little Creek, this was like eating in a nice restaurant. Another was the pool we “discovered.” On the weekend we were kind of free and we found an Olympic size swimming pool where we could hang out. No one else was there the first day but on the second the bar was open. It sold beer and snacks. Our gang hung out on the far side of the pool and when it was time to reload, we would swim over, buy a six pack and a couple of bags of chips, clench the plastic strap in our teeth and back stroke using only our legs while holding the chips aloft.

            The good part of Corpus was the flying time. We got to go up in trainers, twin engine, single engine, and jets. One of the bad parts was the obstacle course. Except for the wall, it was easier than the ones at Little Creek. But the wall was very high and smooth and a lot of us were not going to get over it. And of course, practice was done in the midday heat of a Texas summer. There are a lot of other stories to tell but this tale is about the hurricane.

            As the storm came closer to land, we were told to pack up a small bag to get us through the next day. Things like a flashlight and such. I included a deck of cards in my stuff as well as a couple of rolls of film for my first good camera that I had bought just two days ago. Just my luck, I get my camera two days before an event to would demand the documentary skills I wouldn’t have for another 20 years. When we came out of the barracks that morning, we could see waves breaking over the seawall already and the storm was still offshore a fair distance. We were wearing the working uniform, bell bottomed dungarees, chambray shirts, and Dixie cup hats with the VD stripe that marked us as midshipmen. We were all carrying raincoats. As usual, we fell in and marched to the dining hall. We ate the last real meal we were going to have for several days. After breakfast, we were told to hunker down by the loading dock.

We spent some time there doing nothing at all. John Turcich had a radio but we didn’t get any useful information. Leave a bunch of 20 year old men on their own and they will amuse themselves. Some played cards. Some read. Some took pictures. Others chased seagulls during a hurricane.

When the storm got worse with higher winds and more rain we were told to march to the base theater. There was a guy in the Penn State unit who was known as Zero Bead Gib. We called him that because he never was seen to break a sweat about anything. He was the calmest guy any of us ever encountered. Well, that walk had us bent over as we leaned into a powerful wind driving rain drops like bullets. Up until then, it had been kind of a lark but exposed to the fury of the storm we were getting a bit apprehensive. One of the guys commented “I’m getting worried now. Even Gib is sweating.” That's Gib at far right.

Someone, we never knew who, decided that was the best place for all the people on base who hadn’t evacuated. This included all the midshipmen and a lot of junior enlisted men. We never figured out who was in charge and telling us to move around. The whole group of us did not fill the theater. It was a substantial brick structure with fire escapes on both sides from the balcony level.

            We watched a movie for a while. I have no idea what it was. Partway through the power failed and we were left in the dark. There were some emergency lights, battery powered, and thus very short lived. I can’t remember doing anything but sit in the dark and listening to the roar of the wind. Although the building was solid, the roof was peeled off early on. Water soaked the tiles of the suspended ceiling. Our new diversion was shining our flashlights on the ceiling looking for the next tile to fall.

Most of us had moved to the balcony which was somewhat safer than the main part of the theater. Each time a tile fell there was a cheer. Once we saw one coming down and yelled “heads up!” Murray Scott looked up instead of ducking and took one right on the face. The fiberglass scratched his corneas and a Navy corpsman treated him with an ointment and bandages for his eyes. It took a few days before he could see again but was all right, as far as I know.

            Some of us went out on the fire escape on the lee side of the building. We were out of the wind, reasonably safe, and had a grand view of the storm tearing the base apart.

 This part of Texas is as flat as billiard table and you can see a long way off if you have little bit of elevation. The wind pushed cars down the street despite their rear wheels locked up. Dumpsters flew by. Sometimes they bounced over cars and sometimes they landed on cars. It was uncanny how they picked out the late models for a landing and flew over the junkers. Without warning, a roof would fly off putting shingles and boards into the flying debris stream. In the distance we would see a big blue flash followed a few seconds later by a loud bzzzzzttt. That was a transformer falling off a power pole. I remember it happening at least a dozen times.

     There was surprisingly little rain but that was because we were outside as the eye passed over. As the wind shifted the rain started again and we went back inside. We only stayed inside for a while as watching the storm was the only diversion available. The other side of the building was the lee side now and we went out on the fire escape there.

By this time there were no more transformers but the dumpster dances continued. One of the sailors watched a dumpster land on his new Mustang. Years later, I wonder why he was still on base if he had a car. I guess, and will never know for sure, that some of the sailors had to stay.

            After we were out there for a while, a female Navy Lieutenant came out and yelled at us in a high pitched voice “get back inside.”  Back then the only female officers were nurses and neither midshipmen nor sailors had ever taken orders from a woman. So we ignored her. She yelled again. We didn’t move. Then a Marine Gunnery Sergeant came out and with a gruff drill instructor voice yelled “get back inside!” We did. We all knew how to take orders from Marine Gunnery Sergeants.

            We spent the night in the theater. It was damp and dark. I slept on the floor on a stretch of carpeting best described as moist. There was no food or water provided. In the morning we sat outside the theater doing nothing.

   Someone told us to go back to the barracks. Once again, I have no idea who was telling us what to do. The walk back went through fields of debris, chunks of roofing material, downed power poles and wires, building without roofs, places where buildings used to be, and rumors of large rattlesnakes washed ashore from Padre Island.

  But when we got to our barracks, they were all standing with very little damage. As it turned out, we didn’t lose anything. Some of the rooms took some water. There was some broken glass upstairs and I guess the roof wasn’t whole anymore but other than that, those old buildings came through well. A short distance away, the new housing was a shambles. Some just lost their roofs, others were peeled open to show the insides. There were some that were totally destroyed. And the hated wall was gone, blown completely away. So the hurricane wasn't a total disaster.

            We turned to and cleaned up what we could.

 One big problem was a loss of water pressure so the toilets couldn’t be flushed. But they were still used. As pressure returned I would give each one a shot of water, hoping that slowly the softening action and gravity would get the “stuff” into the sewers. The American Red Cross came by with food and water. While I certainly appreciated their efforts, I wasn’t hungry or thirsty enough to enjoy the ham sandwich (a thick slice of bad ham on white bread without any condiment) or the water which tasted like it had been dipped out of a swimming pool. I didn’t enjoy but I did eat and drink.

            We were on our own. No officers were left. No sergeants came by to bark at us. Somehow, the Penn State unit ended up running things. We maintained the watch bill so there as always an Officer of the Day, a Petty Officer of the Watch, and a Fire Watch. The Penn State unit stood all the watches. Someone came by and asked for volunteers to help clean up debris at base housing. We sent some of our guys out and they started returning with food. There was no power so the contents of freezers and refrigerators were given away to the nice young boys who helped with the clean up. It wasn’t enough to keep us from Red Cross food but it helped us get by. It also added an incentive to volunteer.

            Jim Voter and I were at the desk that served as the command post. A mid from another school came downstairs with pliers and a screwdriver in his hands. He headed for the Coke machine. We stopped him and asked “what do you think you’re doing?” He told us he was going to open it up to get something to drink. We told him to stop, explaining that stealing after a storm was looting and looters were usually arrested if not shot. Yes, there had been a storm, but the republic hadn’t fallen. Then he said he was going to get the storage tank out of the water cooler. We told him we would turn him in for destroying government property. He seemed ready to commit some misdemeanors if not felonies. We really didn’t have any authority to stop him but all the other midshipmen had already experienced the unity and camaraderie of the Penn State gang. And they had seen our ringleader and company commander (at right below), Tuck O’Brien. There would be no nonsense.

A week earlier a mid from Kentucky named Ed made the mistake of calling us “nothin’ but a bunch of coal miners.” Tuck got together a working party and we inverted Ed over a toilet bowl, dipped his head in and flushed a couple times. In other words, we gave him a “swirlee.” And then we told him it would happen again if he said anything else about coal or miners. He was silent on that topic despite being frequently asked what the bituminous stuff was.

There were others who got crazy on us. This was surprising as we were all survivors of the Navy’s screening process. We all were all smart, healthy, and supposedly of high moral character. As it worked out, only most of us were. None of the crazies came from the Penn State unit.  This is not to say we didn’t have some in our unit, but the pride of not letting the unit down affected even a half assed military outfit like ours. We took some pride in taking charge and making things happen.

            Someone gave us a couple of boxes of orders for all the midshipmen. That mysterious someone just dropped them off and assumed we would know what to do with them. We took on the responsibility for getting the mids out of Corpus. As we heard about an outgoing flight, we would sign the orders and send guys on their way. One of the guys in the Villanova unit was from St. Marys. We knew the Secretary of the Navy had space on his plane so I gave one of  those seats to Karl Geci, thinking I would get him to DC and thus a lot closer to home. Years later I found out that SecNav dumped the midshipmen in San Antonio.

                  Bit by bit we gave orders to get everybody out of town. The last three to leave were Jim Voter, Tuck O’Brien, and I. We made the last entry in the logbook with a paraphrase of James Taylor. "We've seen fire and we've seen rain, but the worst of all was a hurricane." We flew in a C-130 from Corpus Christi to Kelly Air Force Base in San Antonio. We noticed a big difference between a naval air station and an air force base. The Air Force had brand new trucks, newer hangars and offices, and golf courses. Somehow we got to San Antonio International Airport. We got there after dark and had to wait until morning to get a flight out. There was a lot of time to kill so we decided to go out for the night. I don’t remember much except crossing a six lane highway to get to a shopping mall. Everything was closed except the Cineplex. At my suggestion we saw a dreadful movie, Myra Breckinridge. We could have seen The Cheyenne Social Club, a much better flick. We pretty much had the place to ourselves. Jim and I had to keep Tuck from cleaning out the coins in the fountain.  I can’t remember how or where we slept. All I know is that we were pretty grungy.

            Our flight was on American Airlines. The plane was a Boeing 727. The route was an all stops local. We took off from San Antonio, landed at Houston, then at New Orleans, then Nashville, then Cincinnati, and finally Pittsburgh. We had a somewhat longer stop in Cincinnati and we went into the terminal. When we came back out, they wouldn't let us on the plane. It was the wrong one. Another identical 727 had pulled into the next gate. Those were the days when you climbed up the steps to get into the plane. Finally getting on the right plane, we made it back to Pennsylvania. A bus ride from the airport then 3½ hour bus ride home. Mom was happy to see me but seemed kind of insistent I get a bath right away.

   

    Thanks for reading. I have had this story in me all these years and I finally got around to sharing it.    Ray

Writers On Writing: Jim Bronyaur

Books That Inspired Me: On Writing by Stephen King

The most inspirational book I’ve ever read is On Writing by Stephen King. The book is written and designed so beautifully with a healthy mix between King’s life and how to actually write. Unlike some biographies that are nothing short of word dumps, King goes through some of the most memorable moments in his life and how they all pertain to his life in writing. He focuses on the small details and just seeing him on how he remembers those details and how they played out in the future in his books and career is just a testament of a person who was born to do something.

Reading about the struggles he experienced as a young writer and teacher, along with having a wife and kids really touches me because I find myself in similar shoes. It’s great to read about someone going through something you are going through or have gone through.

The aspect of writing and his advice on what to do and how to do it are spot on and he presents it in a way that is nothing like a boring English lecture but rather as learning the craft from the greatest horror writer of all time.

I turn to that book time and time again for inspiration. My favorite part is always reading how he got the phone call from his agent (or was it editor or just friend?) that his book, Carrie, had sold for $400,000. He describes looking around his old, beat up apartment, thinking about the broken transmission, the kids being sick, and all the normal things in life. It’s like experiencing that amazing dream coming true along with him. That’s why I love the book and always go back to it.

___

Jim Bronyaur is the author of several horror, thriller, and now mystery novels. His latest release is the first book in the Minivan Mom Mystery Series titled If Errands Could Kill.

Jim’s site: www.JimBronyaur.com

Jim’s blog: www.JBWrites.info

Amazon link

The Elegance of the Hedgehog: Not for Everyone but Bliss for Some

One of the topics that surfaces on book discussion web sites on a regular basis is the controversy over what constitutes “literary fiction.” The anti-literary fiction crowd rants about pretension and elitism and “too many big words” and “I don't want to read 10 pages about some woman worrying about her cat.” I personally have read a lot of literary fiction and I've never encountered that cat lady. I'm still waiting for the anti-literary fiction folks to tell me which one it is.

But for those of us who are enthralled by depth, compassion, lyricism, and books that linger in the mind, there is no substitute for quality literary fiction. For a couple of years I have been recommendations through Goodreads and other literary web sites for MurielBarbery's The Elegance of the Hedgehog I get these little notes in my email that say, “Book-lovin' Lucy thinks you will like...” and then a bright graphic of the front cover. I put the book in my TBR list and Tuesday, for whatever reason, I started it.

For the first few chapters I thought “hmmm, maybe those anti-literary fiction people have a point, this sounds pretty pretentious” but then, I don't know what happened but everything clicked. Suddenly I found myself totally sunken in to this extraordinary story.

Basically it is the story of two women living in an upscale apartment house in Paris. It is the sort of place in which no one ever buys an apartment, they inherit it. Renee is the concierge. She is, by her own admission, a dumpy, frumpy, un-prepossesing 50-something woman who is treated as a servant by most of the residents of the building. But inside Renee is an astonishing woman. She is brilliant and cultured with a deep understanding of philosophy, an appreciation for art and music, and a comprehensive knowledge of literature. She may spend her worklife being anonymous among Paris glitterati but in the quiet of her own little loge she lives a life of incomparable richness.

Paloma, on the other hand, is the daughter of privilege. She lives in one of the elegant apartments with her sophisticated parents and a socially sophisticated older sister. Paloma is also extremely intelligent. She reads widely and knows far more than she is emotionally prepared to deal with and her superior knowledge has brought her to the conclusion that she would be best off to commit suicide when she turns 13. As we get to know her we see that, though intellectually she is well ahead of the resto her family, emotionally she is a 12 year old – and a very miserable one at that. All her intellect does not prepare her for a 12 year old's sense that life is just unfair and people are creeps.

The book is just a joy. The writing is beautiful. The digressions into philosophy and art are fascinating, and the two characters are irresistible. As I read I grew more and more attached to them as I worried bout what was to come of them.

Then a remarkable thing happens. A tenant who has no family dies and the apartment is to be sold. The new owner is a tall, handsome, wealthy and sophisticated Japanese man named Kakuro Ozu. Both Paloma and Renee are fascinated by the new tenant and he is equally fascinated by them. Through their interaction with him they discover each other and soon Paloma realizes what a remarkable woman Renee is.

I don't want to tell much more of the story but it is beautiful and sad and wonderful and unforgettable. One of the most touching moments for me comes toward the end of the story when a young man who had once been an addict and a good-for-nothing comes back to visit Renee and to show her that he is now clean and sober. She is very pleased for him and then he tells her that during all the tough, miserable process of getting off of drugs the thing that kept him focused was thinking about the flowers in her garden. She is astonished and he describes the flowers and asks what they are called. “Camellias,” she says. So beautiful.

I can honestly say this book is not for everyone. But for those of us who get it, it is gorgeous.

Thanks for reading.

Writers On Writing: Mike Nettleton

Books That Inspired Me: Confessions of a life-long bookworm

People who have known me since I was little critter, will tell you they can’t recall many times they didn’t see a book in my hands. Many watched me totter home from my small town library toting the 7 book maximum. One of my early bosses recalls me nearly wandering into a lane of traffic as I walked to work, my nose glued to the pages of whatever I was reading at the moment.

In that sense, all books have played a part in my evolution as a fiction writer. But two works directly relating to the craft stand out. The first is Ray Bradbury’s Zen In The Art Of Writing.

Bradbury stresses the importance of tapping your inner child, of trusting your memories and of reveling in the pure joy of creativity. A stanza of his poem Doing Is Being sums it up best:

Doing is being.

To have done’s not enough;

To stuff yourself with doing—that’s the game.

To name each hour by what’s done,

To tabulate your time at sunset’s gun

And find yourself in acts

You could not know before the facts

You wooed from secret self, which needs much wooing,

So doing brings it out.

Bird by Bird, Annie Lamott’s speculation on writing, the creative process and life it’s own self, helped me deal with the issue of being overwhelmed by a writing project. She made me realize that a 300 page novel is an addition process. A page here—three pages there—half a page the next day. After a while, they add up to a book. She also helped me quell the hyper-critical little imp that backed me into creative corner after creative corner. Here’s the primary message I took away from Bird By Bird:

Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft.

I’m currently rereading Zen and taking away insights I’d missed before. I know my fingers will curl around a copy of Bird on one of my future visits to the library. I’d recommend either or both to anyone aspiring to write or who just wants to marvel at two masters at the height of their craft.

___ 

Mike Nettleton's newest book "Shotgun Start" is a hard-boiled detective novel set in and around Albuquerque, New Mexico. The protagonist, Neal Egan is a former cop eking out a living as a golf hustler. When his ex-wife is accused of the grisly shotgun murder of the man she left Neal for, he finds himself once again drawn into her deadly orbit.

Mike and co-author Carolyn Rose have five jointly-written books including The Big Grabowski and its sequel,Sometimes A Big Commotion, both set in the fictional Oregon coastal town of Devil's Harbor. Also available are The Hard Karma Shuffle, and The Crushed Velvet Miasma with the tie-dye detective Paladin and the young adult fantasy The Hermit of Humbug Mountain. He's enjoying retirement after 43 years of broadcasting, the last 16 at 1190 KEX in Portland, Oregon. He performs in local theater, plays golf and tournament poker and is working on the sequel to Shotgun Start. Amazon Author's Page

Your Brain on Fiction: A Validation

This week's New York Time Sunday Review featured a fascinating article by Annie Murphy Paul about the recent studies on the human brain when people are reading fiction. The studies seem to confirm what I have long believed, the experience of reading good fiction acts on the brain in much the same way as having good experiences in one's daily life. Good fiction, especially fiction rich in sensory description, is good for the brain.

The studies are the result of brain scans done while people are reading and measure brain activity while the subjects are immersed in a story. Brain activity is recorded, measured, and analyzed and show some fascinating results. For one thing the brain's pleasure centers react positively to evocative sense words: lavender, cinnamon, vanilla. Just reading the word gives the brain a little zing much like an actual encounter with those fragrances would.

The brain also responds to evocative adjectives like “a velvety voice”, “leathery hands” but does not respond to passive ones like “pleasant voice” or “strong hands”. This is something I have long noticed in my own reading and try to be mindful of when I write. The brain gets bored by overused phrases and skips over them but is stimulated by fresh descriptions and registers pleasure when they are encountered.

Even more fascinating is the finding that the brain responds to descriptions of activity with visceral reactions. I thought this was particularly interesting because I recently had an experience of it. I was reading Andre Jute's wonderful Iditarod and there were a couple of times, after reading particularly intense chapters, that I literally felt exhausted. One involved an attack by a bull moose on a musher and her dogs. In order to protect her dogs, the musher took off running away from them so the moose would follow her and leave the dogs alone. The description of the enormous moose bearing down on her as she tried to run through the frozen, icy landscape wore me out. Now I know why.

But the most intriguing thing the article offered was how reading novels effects the reader's “theory of mind.” Theory of mind is the term scientists give to the ability of one's brain to scan, interpret and evaluate the intentions and motives of other people. In all our interpersonal interactions we are constantly assessing what is going on with the people we encounter. Now the evidence shows that people who read fiction widely and experience the interaction between characters in stories are better able to understand, evaluate, and interpret their own interactions in real life.

This makes a lot of sense. I've often said that fiction tells the truth unencumbered by the facts and the studies on fiction reading and theory of mind seem to bear that out. Non-fiction lets the reader experience only what actually happened in a specific incident. Novels provide us with archetypal interactions that can be adapted and adjusted to serve other situations.

Keith Oatley, an emeritus professor of cognitive psychology at the University of Toronto (and a published novelist), has proposed that reading produces a vivid simulation of reality, one that “runs on minds of readers just as computer simulations run on computers.” Fiction — with its redolent details, imaginative metaphors and attentive descriptions of people and their actions — offers an especially rich replica. Indeed, in one respect novels go beyond simulating reality to give readers an experience unavailable off the page: the opportunity to enter fully into other people’s thoughts and feelings.

Fiction, Dr. Oatley notes, “is a particularly useful simulation because negotiating the social world effectively is extremely tricky, requiring us to weigh up myriad interacting instances of cause and effect. Just as computer simulations can help us get to grips with complex problems such as flying a plane or forecasting the weather, so novels, stories and dramas can help us understand the complexities of social life.”

All of this encourages me to continue to be more mindful of the words I use when I write. And to keep on reading novels.

Thanks for reading.

#SampleSunday: Free Today! - The Reluctant Belsnickel...

...of Opelt's Wood. I grew up in a Pennsylvania Dutch community where people practiced the custom of Belsnickel on December 6th. I wrote this story for the holidays honoring that custom -- and hoping to keep it alive. This is the beginning. It is available for Kindle and is free today!

The Reluctant Belsnickel of Opelt's Wood

       Oliver Eberstark blamed Father Nicholas Bauer for putting him in this ridiculous position.

       "Oliver, the more you fidget, the longer this is going to take," Gretchen Fritz said taking the silver straight pins out of her mouth and glaring up at him.

       "Sorry," Oliver mumbled but he knew what he was sorry about was even being there in the first place.

       Gretchen sighed and said, "Turn."

       He took one small step to the right and she gave the long green robe he wore a sharp tug,  then folded up the hem and secured it into place with one of the pins clamped between her lips.

       "I'm sorry this is taking so long," she said, "but you're a much bigger Belsnickel than any we've ever had before. I'm certainly glad this robe could be let out."

       "I feel like I'm in a strait jacket," he grumbled.

       Gretchen sat back on her heels looking up at him. "Maybe I can let the shoulders out a bit more." She stood up and ran her hands over the smooth, velvety pile stretched taut across his back. "I could put a gusset down the back. It will be covered by your cape anyway."

       "Cape?" Oliver growled. "Nobody told me I had to wear a cape."

       "Oh, for heaven's sake, don't you remember Belsnickels when you were a kid? Belsnickel always wears a cape. It's over there on the sofa." She knelt back down and continued pinning up the hem. "If Father Nick had given me more warning I would have gotten the fabric to make you a new suit instead of making do with this old one."

       "If Nick had given me more warning I would have stayed in the woods until December was over. I can't believe he's making me do this."

       Gretchen sighed and said. "Turn."

       He turned and was able to twist his head around enough to see a midnight blue hooded cape lined with white fur. 

       "I really don't want to wear that," he muttered. "If Nick's so gung-ho to have a real Belsnickel why doesn't he do it himself?"

       "We tried that but it was a disaster. For one thing he's not big enough but even worse a lot of the children recognized him and parents were upset. You come into town so rarely that they don't know you, so you're perfect. Turn."

       He shuffled a few steps more. "Kids are supposed to love Belsnickel," he said, "I'm not the lovable type."

       She laughed nearly swallowing pins in the process. "There." She stood. "Take that off and I'll measure your chest." She removed the pin cushion attached to her wrist and rummaged on the big table covered with fabric, patterns, and all kinds of notions until she found a tape-measure. 

       He shrugged out of the heavy robe pulling it down over his thick arms with a tug.

       "Careful," she snapped, "don't tear it."

       He fixed her with a scowl. "Maybe when you let out the back you can make those sleeves a little wider too."

       "I'll try," she said taking the garment from him and spreading it out on her worktable to begin the job of hemming it by hand. The hem had been taken up four inches in order to fit Father Nick but now she would need every bit of that to make the robe clear the top of Oliver's boots. "It's only for this year," she said. "I'll make you a new costume for next year. Lift your arms."

       He scowled and held his arms over his head. She reached around him from behind and arranged the tape measure firmly in place.

       "Forty-six inches, you are a big one." She jotted the number down on the pad and moved the tape-measure to measure the difference from the base of his neck to his waist. "I'm sure you'll do just fine."

       "Right."

       "Belsnickel is very important to Father Nick. He was born on December sixth and was named after Saint Nicholas..."

       "I know that."

       "I know you do so can't you be a little more cooperative?" She turned away, slightly embarrassed by her criticism. From everything she knew about Oliver Eberstark she realized this was an unaccustomed effort for him. Oliver was as much of a recluse as anyone she had ever known. Even getting him to leave his home in the old Eberstark Sawmill that his great-grandfather had built was a coupe for Father Nick. If she managed to scare him off from the project Father Nick would never forgive her. 

       He was silent and when she glanced up at him the look in his light blue eyes was that of sheer panic.

       "It's good you have a beard," she said. "It looks much better than the fake ones. We can powder it down a bit to make it white."

       He glowered and reached for his red and black plaid jacket.

       "Would you like some stew? I made a big pot of beef stew today. It's nice and hot."

       He shook his head. "No thanks."

       "Oliver." She placed a hand on his arm - she had to reach up to do it. "This is really very nice of you. We all appreciate it."

       He looked down at her but said nothing. Gretchen thought for a moment about the Oliver Eberstark she had known when he was in high school. He had been a big, handsome, funny and charming boy back then. Captain of the football team and one of the town's heartthrobs - but that was a very long time ago and the man who filled up a lot of the space in her living room now bore little resemblance to that boy.

       "G'night," he said and turned toward the door.

       "Will you come back for one more fitting?"

       His hand was on the door knob and he didn't turn around. "When?"

       "How about Saturday?"

       "I'm busy Saturday," he said without turning.

       Of course, she thought. It was hunting season. He'd be out in the woods. 

       "How about Sunday? There's no hunting allowed on Sundays."

       "Okay," he said and, before she could get in another word, he was out the door, pulling it shut behind him.

       Gretchen sighed, picked up the phone on the work table and punched in the number of the rectory.

       "St. Walburga's," Father Nick answered on the second ring.

       "Well, he just left."

       "How was he? Did he give you a rough time?"

       "No," she said lowering herself into one of the over-stuffed arm chairs in her living room. "He didn't say hardly anything at all."

       There was a long pause on the other end of the line and then Father Nick said, "Okay, thanks for letting me know."

Download at Kindle  

Knitting the Ten Stitch Zigzag Shawl

A few weeks ago I saw something on Pinterest I just couldn't resist: A blanket knit in a quirky zigag pattern that was a modular knit, something I am fond of. There was no link given but that never stops me and I tracked it down to a Ravelry pattern that was offered for free. The design was created by Frankie Brown and is wonderful:

I wanted to learn the technique and, because I had some KnitPicks Chroma fingering weight that I wanted to use, I decided to try knitting a long scarf or shawl. However, I no sooner got to my second strip than I realized I did not care for the joins. I always have to do something different, it's a pain in the neck but that's me. So I started experimenting and I finally hit on a technique that gave me what I was looking for - a very defined slip stitch that follows the zigs and the zags. Frankie Brown knit hers so that every other row shows slightly differently on both sides, thus there is no wrong side. Her blanket is completely reversible. But I wanted my slipped stitches to show on every row (though they go in opposite directions) and this is what I came up with:

Instead of knitting on both sides of the join stitches, I knit them on the RS and slipped on the WS for the odd strips and purled on the RS and slipped on the WS for the even strips. Of course you can do whatever you prefer but this is how I altered Frankie's design to suit my taste.

I also discovered I enjoyed working this more when using short needles. I took 2 5" DP needles, put a point protector on the ends, and am using those to knit. It makes turning much less awkward:

I'm using three different Chroma colorways: Regency, Midwinter and Supernova which I chose because all of them have a lot of gray in them. This is turning into a very absorbing project both because of the shifting colors and the unique pattern. I'm using a #3 needle.


I finally finished my mink vest and it is gorgeous. I need to photograph it and post. And those naughty people at Fabric Mart gave me a 50% off coupon for their stock of velvet fabric so yesterday the mailman showed up with a box filled with lots of velvet. My favorite colors -- sky blue and plum, plus a scrumptious deep blue on a magenta background. so today i don't know whether to write or knit or go to my sewing room. Such problems I have!!!


Thanks for reading!

Writers On Writing: Victoria A. Jeffery

The Book That Inspired Me: Dune by Frank Herbert

A book that I've found profoundly inspirational is Dune by Frank Herbert. I first read this book nearly twenty years ago, barely out of high school. I was blown away by the scope of the story, not only by the storytelling craft but also the technical aspect of the writing. I love reading science fiction but I find hard science fiction intimidating to read and even more intimidating to write. Dune was the first hard sci-fi book that drew me in and captivated me. From the Dune series I went on to read his other works and became a fan. What struck me as different about Dune was that it directly tackled ecology issues without preaching or hitting the reader over the head. He also explored issues of charismatic leadership, the relationships between power, religion and politics, sanity and human survival under extreme conditions. I never thought I would find something that equaled J.R.R Tolkien's work in scope and complexity but Herbert is on his level. Tolkien remains my favorite author and Herbert is my second.

Dune is about House Atreides and the link it will forever establish with the planet Dune. The honorable and stoic Duke Leto Atreides, his family and staff must leave his beautiful home world of Caladan and go to the desert planet Arrakis (Dune) the heart of the spice trade. This planet is the only place in the known universe that holds the powerful spice drug; it is central in the struggle for power and dominance. It is necessary for inter-galactic travel and for many other things and everyone depends on it. Everyone wants to control it. There are fierce, free tribes who are native to Arrakis, major houses and minor houses, the imperial house and a powerful, secretive religious sisterhood that all plot for control. The sisterhood have a secret weapon - a messiah that they intend to create through their ancient breeding program to control the spice but everyone's plans go wrong when one woman of the sisterhood, Lady Jessica decides to rebel and has a son for the Duke instead of a daughter. The Duke's son, Paul Atreides, escapes the control of the sisterhood and survives the ferocious political intrigues and fighting between the rival houses. His survival upsets everyone's plans. Turmoil and chaos ensue when House Atreides is attacked by its rivals. This boy grows up and becomes the fabled messianic leader who returns with a great force to seize power.

Herbert was a master at writing political/religious intrigue along with laying the historical groundwork for the vast scope of the first book. He brought this series alive. He also takes this panoramic, sweeping story and makes it personal. The greatest thing I learned from him is the importance of research and getting ideas from your immediate surroundings. He researched many ideas before he wrote the story and got the germinating idea from a trip to an Oregon beach. 

___

Author Bio: Victoria A. Jeffrey grew up in Portland, Oregon, attended Portland Community College and studied graphic design. She is an author and an avid reader of science fiction, fantasy, historical fiction and non-fiction. She has written The Lady Moons, as well as three collections of poetry, some short stories and a book of fairy tales. She is currently working on the Secret Doorway Tales children's fantasy series.

 

When in Doubt Change Scenes

Like many writers I have a tendency to get so enthralled with a story that I write furiously until, suddenly, I run out of things to say and I find myself completely confused as to where I was headed with this. I have never been the sort of writer who prepares heavy, tight outlines. If I knew exactly what was going to happen all the time I'd lose interest in my stories. Writing to see what happens next is both exciting to do and makes for exciting stories – with the proper amount of rewriting and editing, I think. Most of my favorite writers tend to write this way.

I remember hearing Stephen King telling a story that has stayed with me for years. He was driving through a rural part of Maine when he noticed some small problem with his car so when he got to the next service station he pulled in and told them what was happening. A mechanic took a look at it and assured him it wasn't a problem but he needed a little time to fix it. While he was waiting King walked around the back of the station and saw that there was a river running behind it. He sat down on a rock and began thinking about what would happen if he were to fall in the river and be washed down stream without anyone noticing. The longer he thought about it, the more intrigued he became. Later he began writing about it and the next thing he knew he had a book started. This is how much of the most interesting writing happens.

Back in November when someone on a Facebook page started talking about the old PA Dutch tradition of Belsnickel I had a Stephen-King Moment and wound up writing The Reluctant Belsnickel of Opelt's Wood. It wound up being very popular as a single novella but it lead me to think more about the setting, characters and traditions of my home town and that has been growing and growing and growing. I now have 6 stories for this collection: The Whiskey Bottle in the Wall, Peeper Baumgratz and the Sister's Snowplow, The Confession of Genny Franck, The Reluctant Belsnickel of Opelt's Wood, The Day the Viaduct Blew Down, A Long Day's Journey Into Light I'm working on a seventh, The Great Dumpling War and Dance Competition, with more planned.

However, one of the challenges to writing this way is that sometimes you write yourself into a corner – or at least a wall – and then there seems to be nowhere to go. That happened with the Dumpling story and for several days I've been wandering around doing other things, annoyed with myself for not knowing what to do next. Then I remembered another of the Great Writing Mantras that has served me well throughout my writing life: “When in Doubt, Change Scenes.” It almost always works and makes the story so much more interesting. So why do I forget it all the time?

Writing is a process of world building and, as such, you always have the option to introduce a new dimension to your world. It is rare that if I stop the scene that seems to have stopped by itself anyway, and switch to a new POV or take up some different action that everything does not become exciting again. Plus it helps to avoid the old what-I-did-on-my-summer-vacation narrative (“...and then we did this and then we did that and then we...”) One of the joys of this project is that there are so many quirky characters that there is always an interesting place to go.

So, I'm starting a new scene this afternoon and am very eager to see what will happen. One of the things I love most about writing is the movie-in-my-mind that reveals itself as I write. Sometimes one of the characters will just take over and, though my fingers are doing the typing, somebody else is at the helm. That's when I can hardly wait to get to work.

Thanks for reading.