Wat If?

August 22nd, 2012 by Fay Ulanoff

What if every time you updated your computer you saved a life?

What if every time you pressed the call button on your phone you saved a tree?

And if each time you tapped your Ipad escape button, you freed an innocent hostage.

Negotiations galore; No I don’t think so.

Made up scenarios; Perhaps.

But they are all subjective and open to opinion.

In a world where less should be more, we follow rules and the rules here are enter and execute.

The power of the finger aligns with a keyboard, is all energy, which floats through the air via satellite, mixed with ones aura. And it comes back and tries to save us all.

We have moved into an age of obsessive behavior, because our present inventions have turned us into drones that follow their rules.

We have become a society of conditioned beings, that are told what to do and with what device to do it.

And since there is really nothing wrong with that, why not think of it as a true save. One which is a chance that mankind can heal itself.

So go ahead and press that key.

You might just do some good after all.

Book Friends

August 15th, 2012 by Phyllis Kennemer

I have enjoyed spending time with two new literary friends this summer. I met both of them in books written by Alexander McCall Smith, a Scottish author. He creates comfortable women characters with charm, poise, and pizzazz.

Precious Ramotswe is the proprietor of The No. 1 Detective Agency inBotswana,Africa. This traditionally built woman is not called upon to find murderers, although she does sometimes identify thieves. Her main occupation is directed toward helping people solve everyday problems in life with compassion and confidentiality. Throughout the thirteen books published in the series so far, Mma Ramotswe marries Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, owner of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, and some books later, her assistant Grace Makutsi marries Phuti Radiphuti, manager and heir of Double Comfort Furniture Store. Other delightful characters, all with distinctive personality quirks, also appear throughout the series.

Isabel Dalhousie is a philosopher in Edinburgh, Scotland. A wealthy woman in her early forties, she is the editor of The Review of Applied Ethics and feels a strong moral obligation to help others. Some think that she is a bit too nosy, but she is attentive to small details and a good sleuth. She lives intensely and passionately as her thoughts reveal her rich internal life. In the succession of the eight books in the series, she gives birth to a son. She and the father, a younger man, contemplate the appropriate time and place for a wedding ceremony through the next several books.

As I have been reading books in these two series, I have enjoyed visiting with the characters and I look forward to their continuing adventures.

Zoey the Dachshund's Biz Cards

August 6th, 2012 by Shelley Widhalm

Zoey the Dachshund wants to have her say (or bark).

I am a dog that blogs, and that is pretty hip.

What is not so hip is that I’m not too keen on self-promotion. Sure, I preen and sit up extra straight in wait of pets from passersby as I stake out my spot on various coffee shop tables or restaurant patios or go on my daily walks.

But what I don’t know about is business cards, or didn’t until last week. I overheard Shelley’s friend, Katherine (who is very nice and pets me, even though she has allergies, but can you blame her?), tell her about an idea that popped into her head.

We were sitting outside of Starry Night Espresso Café in downtownFort Collinson, you guessed it, a starry Thursday night, and all these people came up to me and asked Shelley if they could say “hello” and give me a pet. I was in doggie heaven as my fan club gathered.

“You should print up business cards for Zoey,” very smart Katherine said to Shelley.

Shelley liked the idea, which included putting my photo on one side of the card and “ZOEY” in big letters on the other, followed by the name of my blog, “Zoey’s Paw.” And on the back of the card, Shelley could put her blog’s name, “Shell’s Ink,” along with her contact information.

Of course, I get front and center.

Not Shelley, who is writing about tension this week and probably would like that spot. Tension is the writer’s thing that drives a story forward and is the result of story conflict.

I would say my cuteness is what drives people to wherever I’m at to stop and admire my large, brown eyes, black-tipped, floppy ears and kohl-lined features. No conflict necessary.

You see, it’s because I’m the cutest dachshund west of theMississippi River, or actually globally. Plus, any big dogs that give me the evil eye in response to my big-dog barks should realize that I am BIG DOG in the blogosphere.

Leon Fishbone

July 20th, 2012 by Fay Ulanoff

Leon Fishbone was scared.

He was shaking in his scales as the butcher picked him out of the tank of water where he had resided for the last month.

Previously he lived amongst the other Salmon on the coast, until one day a net swooped down and caught him along with many of his friends.

All that remained of them, after years of living near the bottom of the ocean, was an upsweep of sand that eventually settled into a newborn hill.

Leon always knew there was a chance he might get caught, but on the morning of the first cold day in October it gave him shutter when the net dragged him up to the top of the water then threw him along with his buddies into a big hole of an even bigger ship.

Each fish weighed at least five pounds and the pressure with one of them on top of the other resulted in the demise of some.

Leon felt fortunate to have survived the holocaust and flapped his fins in the glass tank he finally released into.

But soon enough he decided that this was the end for him, because he had heard tell of what happened to most of the Salmon he had arrived with.

He overheard it from the fisherman on the boat he’d been captured, but chose not to believe it until he listened to a conversation, through the glass wall between himself and the butchers in the market.

The word was out that they would be taken away and exploited in the fish market as they froze their fins off waiting to be purchased by one of the big supermarket chains.

From there they would be cut up and sold to the highest bidder.

Yes that wasLeon’s fear and on a cold November morning at the pier it became reality and it was the end for him.

Because, after all, he was really and always would be part of the food chain.

Where am I?

July 14th, 2012 by Phyllis Kennemer

            When I flipped the page in my “Funny Signs” calendar to June, I was greeted with a photograph of an authentic highway sign (white letters on a green background) next to a mismatched grouping of six rural mailboxes. A dirt road with a few trees appeared in the background. The sign says, “NOWHERE/TOWN LIMITS.” Interesting, I thought. Welcome to Nowhere.

            A few days later the calendar picture captured my grandson’s attention. “Does that sign say No Where or does it say Now Here?” he asked. Surprised, I responded, “Well, I guess it could be either one.”

            Throughout the following week, I thought about the implications of Richard’s question. We really do get to choose how we interpret anything we encounter if life. We can choose to say, “I have arrived No Where,” or we can proclaim, “I am Now Here!”

            My choice is clear. I am now here. I am now participating in life. Life is good here – wherever I am.

Mountain fires and writing with fire

July 6th, 2012 by Shelley Widhalm

When the wind rode my laptop screen as if it were a sail, pushing my years of work across the table and onto the cement ground, I panicked.

Had I saved my latest work on my flashdrive? What if I lost a few pages, a few poems or a short story?

This was before theHighPark fire struck northernLarimerCounty, smothering the air in my hometown with the smells of a campfire gone wrong. From a lightning strike, thousands of burning acres. Evacuees. Lost homes. Harmed wildlife. A story that is becoming too large to imagine, at least from the outside.

I am writing about fire, a project I started in January nearly six months before my environment became engulfed in the smell, the texture (ashes drop like gray snowflakes), the sight (the smoke rises off the mountain as if from a chimney) and the taste and sound of burning .

My character in “Dropping Colors,” has lost her home in an apartment fire and is on the quest to find her lost things. A few of theHighParkevacuees had the chance to grab their essentials and most important personal things. Kate Letts, my character, does not get that chance and becomes reflective about the meaning of stuff.

Writing is about stuff, about loss and gain and about fire and the flame that lets the words burn. That burn will be revealed in my six-month review of blogging about 52: A Year of Writing Basics, Beliefs and Beauty.

Here’s the stuff, or what is essential to writing: Plot, Setting, Character, Dialogue, Voice, Pacing, Flashbacks, Scenes, Arc, Storytelling. The elements of fiction that are the pieces of wood in a fire.

The match is that initial idea for a character identity, an outline for a story or a snippet of something seen or overheard with the unanswered What If?

Strike the match to that pile of wood symbolizing the writer’s blank page. The spark is the inspiration, motivation, creativity and imagination that ignite the initial idea into flow.

Flow is the opposite of writer’s block, which is the state of mind when words refuse to come.

Flow is losing track of time, place and whatever evokes the senses and getting lost in the telling of the story. For me, it’s almost like reading, because I am not in complete control, though I am conscious, at least somewhat, that I am writing.

To stoke the fire to last until the next writing session, find a good stopping point in the middle of a scene or a chapter or an idea. That way the flame can be picked up to continue the writing burn.

Stoking the fire is keeping to a writing schedule. It is discipline. It is putting time into the craft and art of storytelling.

To keep on writing, there needs to be goals, a belief in the self and the knowledge that this is a rough draft. Just as the main character has to face her flaws, fears and limitations and overcome them to get what she wants, the writer has to work through the same things.

That’s what passion is, doing this thing you love without ever giving up. Despite heartbreak. Despite being told your work is ashes. Despite not having a home for your words.

Writing is Catching Fire, Running with the Wind and Being Wild with all the elements of fiction, so that what results is a thing of beauty. From fire comes a myriad of colors that cannot be washed away. It becomes part of the text, so that the readers lose track of their own settings, identities and stories of their lives.

Recycling for Writers: or, New Life for Old Words

July 2nd, 2012 by Sheri South

Jewish-American author Isaac Bashevis Singer once said that the waste basket is the writer’s best friend. But these are more enlightened times, and writers these days don’t throw unnecessary words away; we recycle them. A block of text that might be superfluous in one novel might just be the seed that germinates and grows into another.

Several years ago, when preparing a workshop on writing the historical novel, I wrote a scene, hoping to show attendees how historical detail could be incorporated into a scene without creating an “information dump.” The scene I wrote showed a man on his deathbed, dividing his estate between his two sons. One son would inherit his title and estate; the other son, who was illegitimate, could not legally inherit the title or the entailed property, and so was bequeathed a certain amount of money instead. The purpose of the scene was to show how I could give readers a working knowledge of British inheritance law without interrupting the flow of the story.

I liked that scene enough that I kept it long after the writer’s conference was over, thinking I might expand it into a novel—part regency romance, part “buddy story” as the two half-brothers were forced to work together after the old man died. That book was never written, but years later, that scene provided the “bones” for the Kirkbride family in my work in progress, a third John Pickett mystery with the working title Family Plot.

As for that regency romance/buddy story, who knows? I may still write it someday. After all, I’ve already got the first scene written.

 

Five Minutes at the Beach

June 21st, 2012 by Fay Ulanoff

Five Minutes at the Beach

I park my car in the lot, get out and trudge down to the shore on what is referred to as sand.

After taking off my shoes and slinging my pack onto my back the gravel cuts into my flesh. Softness and warmth do not come to mind as I walk as far along the shore as my burned feet will take me.

My brain says, “Enough get your shoes back on and get back to your car.”

I heed its warning and slip my feet back into my shoes and start back up the hill, away from what is called a beach, to the parking lot overlooking it.

My brain speaks to me once again and this time asks me a question, “Does this body of water have a fragrance, or even a smell? Perhaps the pleasant waft of salt water might be sniffed”

Again I try to do what it says and again there is nothing. What’s going on? This is after all a beach. But I guess it is not the ocean I have been used to my whole life.

I suppose I should just take it for what it is to me.
Blank

Catching onto Character Arc

June 6th, 2012 by Shelley Widhalm

As a story unfolds, so does the identity of the characters playing a part in the telling of that story.

The unfolding from the story’s beginning to the middle and to the end is called the arc, or the line of the story. The scenes within the arc build to the top, or the moment of highest tension, before sloping back down into some kind of resolution.

The story arc includes one or several character arcs, depending on how many main characters there are.

The character has to want something, or she already has what she wants and loses it.

The character arc is the line of movement in the story as this character faces her flaws, fears and limitations and overcomes them to get what she wants – or, in some cases, needs but does not initially recognize or acknowledge. The inner (or outer) journey she undergoes along the way causes growth and transformation of who she is.

In my novel “Changing Colors,” my main character Kate wants to replace her lost things from an apartment fire, but her obstacle comes in the form of antique stores and flea markets that don’t have anything except for a teddy bear, not enough to restore her sense of home.

Kate faces setbacks and forces of antagonism up until the crisis event, or climax. Those setbacks thwart her desires and trigger her fears.

As she is tested, her motives increase, giving purpose to her actions. She becomes more determined to overcome her problems and obstacles. At the climax, or her moment of truth, she will have to stay with the status quo and suffer the consequences or change to get something better. What that is for Kate, I haven’t yet figured out.

But I do know that as soon as Kate, or any main character, gets her want or need met, the story is over.

Confessions of a Confirmed Bibliophile

May 24th, 2012 by Sheri South

Long before I was a writer, I was a reader. I still am. I love books. Not only do I love them for the stories that dwell inside them, I also love the physical sensation of holding—no, of experiencing a book. I love the sleek covers of a new paperback, the faint crack of the spine in opening a new hardcover. I love the crisp white pages with their sharp corners, and the smell of binder’s glue.

But a recent reading of  Nevil Shute’s Australian classic The Far Country reminded me of the more subtle joys of old books. This was a sixty-year-old library book, and it showed. The boards were covered with thick, coarsely woven fabric treated with something that would presumably withstand a nuclear blast. There was nothing remotely attractive about this sort of binding; it was bound with durability, not beauty, in mind. Still, there was something about it that I found appealing. Maybe it was the way it fell open in my hand—and stayed open at the same page, even when I laid it down. Maybe it was the way the once-sharp corners were rounded with wear, the edges of the once-crisp pages furred velvety soft by dozens, even hundreds, of hands. Other, newer books might be more glamorous, but there’s something comforting about old books.

In a way, every old book is a mystery, regardless of genre: what child, long since grown to adulthood, scribbled with a red crayon on the front endpaper? Who was the H. Colby who received my copy of Georgette Heyer’s The Reluctant Widow for Christmas in 1947? Was he/she pleased with the gift? What series of events transpired to move the volume from H. Colby’s bookshelf to mine?

Maybe this is why my feelings toward ebook readers are so ambivalent. On the one hand, I’m pleased to see so many out-of-print books finding new life through this medium, and of course I’m delighted to receive a royalty check each month for sales of my own backlist, now available in electronic form. And yet even though I have a Kindle, I still prefer print books. Part of the problem, I believe, is the sameness of ebooks: no matter how different the subject matter, every book looks alike on my Kindle. The text appears in the same font, with the same spacing between lines, paragraphing, and all other formatting. All identical except the stories they tell.

But that, of course, is the most important part. And that, in the end, may be what will eventually make me fall in love with ebooks too. After all, my love of books had to come from somewhere, some book in my now long-forgotten childhood that made me hungry for more of that. Maybe I just haven’t yet stumbled across that story, unavailable except in electronic form, that sends me to the computer determined to clutter up my Kindle’s memory banks with more. Maybe the next electronic book I read will be the one to have me devouring ebooks like a junkie in search of his next fix.

I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.

Because I love books.