The Latest Addition

Meet a New Writer

Suzanne Gwinner

I have spent a career working with dyslexic students, students who learn differently, call them what you will. Whatever the label, they are bright students who have difficulty with our language – most commonly written language. One of my high school boys remarked recently that I must be crazy to enjoy writing!

I have written for pleasure since high school, but I have just recently gotten serious about attempting to write a book. As a newer member of the SCWW, I am finding the feedback and comments at our meetings most beneficial. I’m extremely excited about the conference in October!

As for my student’s comment – there are days when I consider him a most insightful young man!


Suzanne's first posting follows.

Summer's Gift

By Suzanne Gwinner

At the end of May I gleefully waved goodbye to my cherubs at school as they scrambled into an assortment of cars, SUVs, and minivans waiting to whisk them away to the beaches and mountains of our fair state and beyond. Don’t get me wrong. I love my work, but teaching bright dyslexic and ADHD children is an adventure not meant for the timid. Summer break is a well-deserved respite for a veteran teacher.

Early in June I spent ten days exploring Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks. The summer crowds had not yet descended, cool weather prevailed, and wildlife roamed unperturbed. Attaining one of my life goals – observing wolves in the wild – made me tingle. On three separate occasions I watched different wolves interact, undisturbed by humans. My spirit rejoiced.

Now, school is out, vacation is tucked away in my mind’s eye, and summer has delivered her most precious gift – the gift of time.

Seated at my computer, refreshed and rested, I make plans for my gift.
Time.

The lack of it seems a constant theme in American life, but for the next eight weeks time will be my friend. I’m giddy at the prospect of unstructured time. This year I will put writing high on the priority list, schedule time for it instead of giving it the leftovers. In the past it has been buried under home improvement projects, golf, and travel. Like an artist molds clay, I can shape time into forms that appeal to me. Most likely I’ll carve it into big chunks. That’s the kind of time I like. I’m not good at doing a little here and a little there. Multitasking? Not my strong suit. When writing, I like to lose track of time. It’s a luxury, I know. Sometimes I skip meals, or work late into the night. I like that kind of time. I love the surprise when I turn off my study light to go to bed, and darkness envelops the entire house. Only then do I realize the late hour for the lamp timers have all clicked off. Even the dog has curled up in his bed to chase dream rabbits. That’s the kind of time I cherish. And it is to be cherished, for off in the distance I hear a little voice whispering, “Eight weeks! You only have eight weeks!”

I admire people who write books while they toil at demanding jobs; I just don’t know how they do it. Finding big chunks of time during the school year is almost impossible. So, now that summer has delivered her gift, I can work on another of my life goals - to write my book. My materials are in order, the outline is complete, and the story plays like a movie in my head.

All that’s left now is to put the words on paper.

The Latest Addition

Meet a New Writer

Marissa Burt

I am an unabashed lover of all things book-related. Like most avid readers, I've tried my hand at writing. Short stories, poetry, novels - you name it, I've probably tried it. My most recent project: The Tale of Una Fairchild: The Beginning, the first book in a middle-grade fantasy trilogy, is currently on submission to publishing houses via the hard work of my agent Laura Langlie. Please visit my blog for more details. http://www.marissaburt.wordpress.com

When not writing, I enjoy time with my husband, two sons, and the clowder of cats that surround our house. I like to bake (mostly sweets), garden (any plant that survives my meddling), read (of course), and act (the more dramatic, the better). I'm thrilled to be a part of the Columbia Writers Workshop and appreciate the encouragement of such a great group of writers.

Marissa's first posting follows

Writing Like an Actor

By Marissa Burt

I recently saw an interview with a well known actor who described this approach to his film roles: for each take of a scene, he would adopt a fresh angle. The lines were the same. The setting was the same. But he always tweaked his delivery, just to see how it could be different. The end result was that he thoroughly explored his character and gave the director a whole slew of different options for the final film.

Are you stuck on a scene? Do your characters feel wooden? Or maybe something’s just not right, but you can’t put your finger on it. Try writing from a fresh angle. Play around with your characters. Give them a stance, a voice, or a motivation you haven’t seen before. Make adjustments to the setting. What would change if the scene took place in the middle of the night? During a busy workday? First thing in the morning? Or pick a side character – maybe someone who merely passes through a scene – and explore her backstory. Tweak her delivery, just to see how it could be different. You may be surprised by the end result.

Some writing friends I know have done this as a group. Everyone hands off a chunk of a current work in progress to someone else in the group. Then they each write the next scene of their partner’s work. It’s a challenging exercise for a writer. On the one hand, you must try to enter into another author’s world and continue the story. Writing in an unfamiliar voice, exploring a different genre, tackling the type of writing you might never do on your own – all of this is great practice. And, on the receiving end, you get fresh insight into your own work. Perhaps your partner will take the story in an unpredictable and interesting direction. Perhaps these new ideas will reveal the weak spots in your plot or setting. If nothing else, the combined effort should get your creative juices flowing.

As writers, we can often be so motivated to print off that fat draft of our manuscript that we focus primarily on productivity. Of course, this is important, or we’d be stuck in endless cycles of revisions. But sometimes it’s worth it to playfully rewrite our work in progress, even if it doesn’t seem very productive at the time. At the very least, our writing skills will improve, we will explore our characters in greater detail, and we will give ourselves a whole slew of different options for our final draft.

Untitled, Part I

By George Newport

Life consists of:
What you want.
What you need.
What you deserve.
What you end up with.
What you do with what you get.
I have been writing most of my life, I wrote stories in school and it seemed to be popular from the early grades, in our one room Vermont schoolhouse, with one teacher for all eight grades, on up to college, in college my classmates encouraged me to write more, I took more than one Creative Writing Class and you were only allowed one as I passed each one with a high grade, I wrote about my journal events, my dysfunctional and abusive childhood, the deaths of three of my younger siblings from abuse, I held Rhonda Jeans hand in the local emergency room as she bled to death internally from a beating, I tried to prevent Elaine Louises sexual abuse from one of the older adults and was unsuccessful, she ended up in a semi coma and died in her sleep one night, I saw William George run over, by Pop, because he would not stay out of the road on our little traveled, rural, backwoods, Vermont country road and Pop was trying to teach him or scare him to keep him out of the road, I drove, one at a time, four of my younger sisters over to New York state from Vermont, for abortions, from sexual abuse, as they were illegal in Vermont, these events were added to my daily journal, I drove tractor trailer coast to coast over the road, starting at age fourteen, for my Dad in his truck, a 1964 Mack cab-over with the largest turbo charged V-8 Mack engine and twenty speed transmission, when my Dad got me a license that said that I was ten tears older than I really was, I would drive the truck to high school on Friday and park in the school bus line, then I would try to get back for my classes on Monday morning, some of the girls in high school wanted to see my one stack Mack with the bedroom on the back, and some rode with me, more journal events of my life on the road,


To be continued next week

Untitled, Part II

By George Newport

I enlisted in the Army, at seventeen, by getting my older brother and his wife to pose as my parents and sign the necessary Army paperwork, I volunteered for Airborne duty and went to Jump School in Fort Benning, Georgia, then I volunteered for Special Forces training and qualified as a Green Beret, I went to Viet Nam, to work for the Intelligence Agency in illegal and secret projects in Cambodia and Laos after our government signed agreements to keep our troops out of these countries, my time in combat was just like being at home with my abusive parents, I transferred to different units in Special Forces to stay in Viet Nam from 1969 to 1973, I earned a number of awards and decorations which look real pretty on my dress uniform but represent the deaths of some of my teammates that as combat veterans we formed a special bond that is closer than brother and sister or even husband and wife, when my war ended, I did two years of Prisoner Of War and Missing In Action recovery in Cambodia and Laos, I was captured by the Pathet Lao but the war was over so I was not a Prisoner Of War, I managed an escape as getting me out would have been an international incident, I spent a lot of time with Psychatrists working on my Borderline Personality Disorder and my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from my childhood abuse and my time in the military, I could pick out other abuse victims by watching them for a little bit and encouraging them to seek therapy for their childhood abuse and continued to council them about their abuse also, I continued to write about my life and the lives of the people around me, I changed the names to protect the guilty, I have a rather large manuscript that I have been trying to get published, the publishers want me to write a series and I do not think that I can do that so they refuse to publish my book as a single volume, so I continue to write about the dark side of life and death and maybe one of these days I will find a publisher who will work with me, I have belonged to a number of writers groups which has helped me immensely in my writing, e mail does not have a spell check, which I desperately want and need, the muse in me is constantly composing and I will sit down at the computer and write until I am done and then I have to go back and look at what I wrote to find out what it is about, that has been my writing style most of my life, I would not encourage anybody to set out to be a writer as it is a low paying job with little recognition with no future, go to medical school or law school, I was born handsome instead of rich, so I continue to fill pages with my writings and look for an outlet for my writing and hope that it is made into a movie some day as that is where the money is, my initial rough drafts are normally devoid of paragaphs and real puncuation and the first thing that I do is hit it with spell check, I should go back and edit this write, but I am going to send it off in its original format, as the ramblings of a muse inspired writer, then I will look at our writers group website to see what I have written, if it winds up in our blog

10,000 Hours

By Janie Kronk

Need a new perspective on what all those hours at the keyboard mean? Check out Malcom Gladwell’s latest book, Outliers.

Although this is not a book about writing, I recommend it here for two reasons:

1) It’s good. For anyone interested in “big idea” books, this will be an entertaining and informative read. Well-written and full of stories illustrating the ideas it puts forth, Outliers turns the notion of the American Dream on its head while examining why some people are successful and others are not.
2) It shows that practice is important, which can be a hard thing for a writer to remember while slogging through that first draft—or second, or third. Gladwell includes an eclectic mix of success stories, including those of Bill Gates and Mozart. What is interesting is that while the book does not deny the genius of these individuals, it does not focus on genius as a reason for success. Instead it focuses on the set of circumstances that allowed these individuals an opportunity to PRACTICE the thing they would become known for. One study described in the book separated university level music students into three groups based on skill level. What was the only thing that separated those that could go on to become world class performers from the rest? The amount of time they had practiced over the course of their lives.

So maybe practice does make perfect. What great news! At least, it’s great news as long as we can keep finding those opportunities to practice.

According to Outliers, there is even a magic number of hours of practice one must go through before becoming an “expert” (i.e. on par with Bill Gates in the computer world, or a world-class violinist in the music world), which seems to hold true in any field: 10,000. This could seem discouraging when you do the math and realize that this number corresponds to approximately three hours a day for ten years—what about our jobs? What about the kids?

But then again, how long have you already been writing? Is it necessary to be a writing expert to pen a story that is beautiful, or entertaining, or just plain good? No, it’s not necessary. That’s why we workshop. That’s why we edit.

The important thing to know is that practice makes us better, and, as long as we keep grabbing those opportunities to practice, no matter how brief, we will get better.

How close are you to your 10,000 hours?

It's Been Said Before and Better

By Bonnie Stanard

This criticism goes to the question of creativity, especially as it applies to fiction. How can we produce writing that departs from what has already been published? The challenge to poets can be seen in the desperation evident in some poems published today.

We write from our feelings, intellect, and experience, things that make us human. However, these very things are as old as humanity, and we’ve been writing about them for hundreds of years. The scenery may change, but there are no new plots or characters.

Our feelings are strong motivators. We’re tempted to turn our love life into a novel, but an affair, unique to us, becomes boy-meets-girl as a plot. The angst of puberty, loneliness of old age, and pride in battle are but a few examples of stories that have been retold many times.

Can our intellect save us from writing a rehash of what has already been written? It is possible to develop new concepts from our perceptions, as people like Freud, James Joyce, and Shakespeare bear out, but how many of us are in that league?

Surely each person experiences life differently from every other person. This may be analogous to saying nobody has my recipe for chili. The “ingredients” of life may mix, interact, and react differently, but we all have the same ingredients. You may say, “Nobody else can remember the time I cut my foot on a glass bottle while swinging on a vine.” That may be unique to you, but is it original? See what I mean?

The point here is that if we think we’re on the road less traveled, we may be unaware of the traffic backing up in our lane. One of the few ways we’ll discover derivative or mundane aspects of our work is from critics in our workshop. Our group is cautious with criticisms. Questions often mean the text being discussed is weak. If your manuscript gets hardly any reaction, it is either very good, very bad, or very long.

The advice I’ve heard at our SCWW conferences has devolved into my current writing strategy, which is to reach for the unexpected in characters and the unpredictable in plot. For instance, the guy sitting in a nearby seat just mailed a rattlesnake to his girlfriend. The little girl with him is not his daughter. If a character seems to be falling in love, the last place for the plot to go is the bedroom. The boss who promises his secretary a promotion is demoted himself. Screams in the night aren’t murder. They’re cat fights. A pizza delivery man knocks at the door, and he’s carrying...

On Writing Groups

By Alex Raley

During our last writers group meeting, I realized that I am the oldest person in the group, by both years of age and by years in the group. You might ask why I am still in a writers group. Have I not learned to write? Oh well, I suppose passing a writing test is not beyond my abilities. But, the group is not about learning to write. Most of us write fairly well, thank you.

The writers group helps me make my writing more interesting. Group critiques are honest and to the point, the point being to truly communicate and hold the interest of a reader. There is a bountiful supply of diverse thinking in the group, so there is always someone who clicks immediately with what I write, but if just one person seems to miss what I intend to say that is a good reason to take another look at the writing.

The diversity of age in the group sometimes points you in a different direction, or supports what you have written. The group read a poem I had written about the regimentation we build into the lives of children. In naming such events in the poem, I asked what child needed a project on PowerPoint. One reader said that was too adult, but, before I could explain that my second- and fifth-grade grandsons had just completed PowerPoint assignments, the younger folks jumped in to say that children are indeed dealing with PowerPoint in school. And, of course, I love to hear the wise, calm voice of an elder in the group when the younger folks are railing for more action, more detail.

We recently had a new person visit us. He said that he had sent a manuscript to an editor, or agent, who responded that the story did not have a narrative curve, or some such name for the peak in a story, which usually occurs just before the writer pulls all threads of the narrative to a conclusion. I would say to that visitor that we may not be able to give you a well-written definition of the narrative curve, but, through the thoughtful and caring responses to your writing from our group members, you will develop your own narrative peaks and writing style.

What Are You Working on Now?

By Vikki Perry, moderator of Columbia II SCWW

Last month, I participated in a contest offered by The Knight Agency. The prize was a critique and possible representation by an agent. They asked participants to send a three sentence pitch about their novel to their submissions email box. After the contest was over, one of the agents posted that they had received 1200 submissions and that there were 20 winners. I was not one of them. It was an awesome exercise.

Why am I telling you about this? That's easy. I want us to do it too! Soooo, here is what I propose. In sixty words or less, pitch your novel or book-length writing work (memoir, creative non-fiction, non-fiction,etc.) If you are not writing book length fiction, tell us about your latest poem or short story. Just scroll to the end of my entry and click on "comment." A page will appear which contains a box to make comments. In this box, type your 60 words. Then complete the "word verification" by typing the letters you see above that box. Choose an identity and publish. If you are unable to publish your entry, email your copy to me at vikkiperry@gmail.com with a copy to Ginny at ginnypadgett@sc.rr.com.

To sweeten the pot and encourage participation, I will throw in a copy of Chris Riordan's Don't Sabotage Your Submission. This book will go to a commenter on this blog. The critique group will be judging the entries at the June 15th critique meeting and we will post a winner.

To get you started, I will share the pitch that I sent to to the Knight Agency. (Yes, I know this is more than sixty words.)

"Cursed World War II flyer, Seth Avery, is soul sworn to prevent an ancient magical dagger from falling into the wrong hands. When Mackenzie Russell, a modern historian, discovers the dagger’s hiding place, she incites a string of events that attracts the attention of a cult of ancients who desire the dagger’s magic for their own evil gain. Fighting the powerful and forbidden attraction that flares between them, Seth and Mackenzie must flee the ancients who will not hesitate to kill anyone in their path, and prevent the dagger's power from being unleashed on an unsuspecting world."

Now tell us yours! You have until June 10th to submit.

Thanks and good luck,
Vikki

Capturing Pictures or Voices?

By Deborah W. Yoho

How do you know when you are finished with a piece of writing? I can’t seem to figure this out. I was flabbergasted when my new friend Ilmars announced that he had “finished another novel”.

I had to ask, “You mean you are finished with the first draft? Did you write it straight through?”

“Yes,” he answered, “now I will go back and edit it.”

I wish I could do that, write straight through. I can’t compose a sentence without editing it as I go. (I just changed the last sentence to substitute compose for the word write. But I’m not at all sure the result is better.) Ilmars’s method seems much more efficient.

Fifteen years ago I wrote a short self-help book. At one point I decided I was finished with it. But when I pulled it out six months ago with the idea of actually publishing it myself, it was clearly not ready. Here I am now still fooling with it.

Is writing an art form, an activity suited to spontaneity and experimentation? Or is it more like a craft, the result of carefully honed skills perfected only by consistent practice? If it is an activity to be practiced, I have surely had plenty of that! Yet the more I practice, the more unsure I am about my ability to put two words together sensibly.

There is something profoundly visual about how I go about this activity. So often when writing, I stop, cock my head sideways, stare at the print, and ask myself, “Does that look right?” Look right, not sound right.

When I am reading, the words become sounds in my head. Authors speak to me, rather than write to me. I think I’ve got this all backward, or inside-out, or something.

So I’ve decided to tack into a new direction. I’ve bought a digital recorder, and I will try to speak my thoughts “straight through” before putting them to paper.

I’ll let you know whether or not this works. But I know what you’re thinking, and I agree. The written word is not the same thing as the spoken word. Many articulate speakers are not good writers.

Perhaps what I am after is to match my written words with the pictures in my head. What I see in my head, I think, is what motivates me to write. I want those thoughts to have life!

Hmmm, maybe writing is about visualization after all.

The Games We Play

By Ginny Padgett

When our writer’s group gathers every few months for a social evening, three standards mark the meeting: 1) good food; 2) camaraderie; 3) a writing exercise.

At our most recent soiree we were asked to write an opening for a story. The prompt to that exercise follows in bold face; my paragraphs ensue.

This activity really massaged my creative muscle, so I challenge you to use the prompt and, as our host Alex Raley said to us, “…see where it leads.”



“Mr. Witherspoon, a Susan Matthews is on line one for you.”

“Okay, thank you.”

Bill closed the office door and pressed the line one button. “Susan, I told you never to call me at the office.”

“Bill, we have to talk. Can you meet me for lunch?”

Bill hesitated for a moment before responding, “I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes beside the dry cleaners on the corner two blocks from your office. We still need to be discreet.”

After returning the handset to the phone, Bill took a key from his briefcase and unlocked the bottom desk drawer. Retrieving a Sig-Sauer P232, he tucked it into the waistband at the back of his gray flannel pants. He donned the single-breasted jacket and went into his private bathroom.

The full-length mirror assured him his weapon didn’t disturb the svelte lines of his $2,000 suit. He leaned forward to study his face and then concentrated on relaxing the tense muscles that showed the stress from the last two weeks. Taking a cleansing breath, he tried on several smiles until he found one that would convey trustworthiness and compassion to Susan.

Locking his office door behind him and then turning toward his assistant’s desk, he said, “Elaine, please cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day. The assisted living facility where my mother lives just called. She’s suffered another stroke and I need to go to her right away.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Witherspoon. I’m so sorry. If I can do anything, just ask. Don’t worry about anything here.”

“Thanks, Elaine. I appreciate your concern,” he said as he strode toward the reception area and the elevators beyond.

The Latest Addition

Meet A New Writer

CELINDA BAREFIELD

Celinda is a life-long lover of the literary arts. She received her BA in English Literature so she could spend her undergraduate years talking about books. She went on to get her Master's in Library and Information Science so she could be a Librarian and be paid to read books. In the few moments when she is not reading she tries her hand at writing.

"When I finish a book I can't help but take part of the writer's world and style with me. I'll read Shakespeare and hours later I’ll start speaking in rhymes with thee's and thou's issuing forth from my lips. Often I pick up the pen and continue the story until I feel satisfied with the ending. With that satisfaction sometimes comes the beginning to a whole new tale that only I’ve been able to enjoy so far. Here's hoping that my dream to share the stories swirling around in my head with the rest of the world will some day come true!"

Celinda currently lives in South Carolina in want of love or a cat, whichever doesn’t make her sneeze.

The Fool

By Celinda Barefield

It being spring, I thought I’d share an archetype with you. Though there are many to choose from, such as the “Betrayer,” “Casanova,” and “King Arthur” archetypes, I thought that a sub-character archetype would be fun for a change, so I chose the “Fool” archetype. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why that one?

The “Fool" is one of the longest standing archetypes in history. It traces its origins as far back as Homer’s Iliad. It was made famous by Shakespeare. Every single one of Shakespeare’s plays included this archetype. A current example of the “Fool” is the character Neville Longbottom in the popular Harry Potter series. Here is a character that, but for a simple chance of fate, could have been the main character of the series. Instead, he is seen as the “Fool.”

So what is the “Fool” archetype anyway? It is a character that for the sake of the story is the laughing stock. He is the center of most jokes, but not because of his own choosing. Luckily, he is also usually the wisest character in the story, or at least he has a piece of wisdom that surpasses all the others showing him to be the smartest person of the group even though everyone thinks him the dumbest. Sadly, his wisdom is often ignored leading to the downfall of a main character. It is the “Fool” that helps get a point across that others would otherwise ignore.

“Fools” make for great sub-characters. They provide comic relief to a tense situation while providing needed insights into the world of the main characters. Most stories have them if you look hard enough. You might even be creating one as you read!

On Finding Time to Write

By Vikki Perry

As a business analyst with a software company, I love my job. No day is ever exactly the same. The job provides me with endless challenges, money to pay my bills, and a steady stream of character traits for my writing. (Like the Oracle of Corporate Speak. I have no story for him at this time so feel free to steal if you would like to.) What my job doesn’t provide me with is time to write. This is very frustrating for me as a person who wants to write constantly. Unfortunately, barring an unexpected lottery win or selling my book for a six figure deal, I don’t think I am going to get more time to write (not without sacrificing my ability to pay my bills).

That means I’m faced with choices about how to find the time to write.

Bad option: Wait patiently for the lottery win before pursuing my dream.

Good option: Write whenever I have a free moment.

I can always find five minutes to write something. The first paragraph of a blog entry. A character description. The next sentence in my novel.

Bad option: Wait until I retire before I write.

Good option: Start now.

If I had a nickel for every time that I’ve heard the phrase “I’ll write a book someday,” I could pay off my mortgage, which would put me much closer to the goal of writing full time.

Bad Option: Sitting paralyzed in front of the computer not writing anything.

Good option: Write bad prose when good prose won’t come.

The muse comes to those who are working. My muse is very fickle. She trots away for vacation in a warm sunny place during the depths of winter. She searches for cool mountain air to escape the heat and humidity of a South Carolina summer. I have to drag her back to Columbia by letting my fingers roll across the keyboard. Soon she’s back to work and good sentences are pouring onto the page.

You see, I can’t stop working at my “real” job, but I also can’t stop writing. The urge to create and to allow the characters that exist in my head to exist on the page is too strong. I have always loved to write, and I believe that if you truly love something, you will find time to do it.

What is stopping you from starting now? Your kids? Your job? Your spouse? I can tell you a dozen stories of writers who have become very successful while juggling very full lives. Think about what you do each day. I bet you can find time to do at least a little bit of writing.

Transitions

By Meredith H. Kaiser

Life’s transitions offer fertile ground for writers. When our feet are planted, each one in different soil, straddling two worlds, we are stretched to experience both places at once. That tension, our attention pulled in half, is the gift of new vision.

As writers, we can be blinded by familiarity, deadened by what is already known. But fresh directions, which we see in the context of where we’ve been and from where we set out, brighten our souls with the light of newness, possibility, awareness.

The challenge is that transitions require energy and the temptation is to focus on the details – learning a new job, packing for a move, mourning a death – while neglecting our need to write about it, to explore it in detail, to leave bread crumbs of words on paper as we travel our new path. Instead, we are encouraged to “put your head down and get through it”, “hunker down and hold on” rather than to keep our head up, our eyes open, our pens at the ready.

However, in order to grow and to mine the experience as writers, we must face the head winds of change and record the joys, fears and discoveries of the journey. Paying attention and making notes, that’s how we learn the lessons of transition. If we just stay busy and muddle through, we miss the whole point. And the lessons that are available to us remain unlearned. But they will wait for us around the next turn, patient for us to notice them.

More on Romance Writing

By Ilmars Briznieks

I have been told repeatedly by agents and editors that romance writers should use only England, Ireland, Scotland, or Wales as background in their novels. Supposedly, readers of these novels don't enjoy any other country depicted. Presumably, only interesting lovers come from these countries. What a narrow assumption. What about Italy, Spain, France, or any of the South American countries? Haven't they been known for generations to have had, and continue to have, some of the most dramatic love affairs?

It is beyond me why readers of romance novels have such preferences. Is it ignorance or just plain naivete?

Sex on the Beach or Why I Love Romance Novels

By Vikki Perry

Bodice Rippers. Trashy Novels. Sentimental Formulaic Drivel. Bestsellers. If romance novels do anything among readers and writers, it is to provoke emotion. As a reader and writer of romance, I have heard it many times, “You read that!” “You’ll grow out of them eventually,” or “I feel sorry for you that you enjoy those books.” The disparaging tone from other readers and writers can be disconcerting. So, let me take this opportunity to explain why I love them.

The happy ending. The truth is, for me, the happy ending is like a drug. It’s addictive and it feeds my optimism and my hope. The world sucks. The economy is in the toilet. People are dying everywhere. I want escape into a world where I know that it will all come out marvelous in the end. I know it isn’t real, but a romance novel allows me to escape for a couple of hours.

Variety. No other genre of fiction has such a large group of subgenres. I can find paranormal romances, historical romances, futuristic romances, contemporary romances, Christian romances and romantic suspense. There are a endless choices.

Well-crafted stories that have complete plot and character arcs. OK, I read like a writer because I am a writer. I love a story that has a beginning, a middle and an end. I also love a story where the character changes from the beginning of the story to the end of the story. In romances, they typically change for the better.

I started reading teen romances at eight years old and since then I’ve probably read thousands of romances. I’ve read everything from the classics by Kathleen Woodwiss, Georgette Heyer, and Barbara Cartland to the modern bestsellers by Sandra Brown, Linda Howard, Suzanne Brockmann, JR Ward, and Gena Showalter.

As a writer, I want to write like them. I want my prose to evoke emotions in my readers and make them long for more. Reading all of these authors in my preferred genre has been like a master class in romance writing. I’ve learned what works and what doesn’t. The best piece of writing advice that I’ve ever gotten is that you write what you read. So that is what I’m doing. I’m not ashamed of my romance novel writing or my romance novel reading. Here’s hoping that one day my bodice ripper is a bestseller

Writing Hell

By Laura P. Valtorta

My mentor, a Jewish attorney, older than 90, five feet tall, with a hummingbird physique is planning to visit her family in a Big City next month. Her children are doctors. She resists moving to the Big City because here she is an attorney. There, she would be “somebody’s mother.”

She has a bum knee. It’s nothing life threatening but the idea that she might not return home to Columbia floats around, because of her age. She hates staying home all the time. I offered to take her to the Pancake House for lunch next week, and that was an exciting idea I told her I would drive and park close to the front door. For a woman who prides herself on her career as a solo practitioner, and her graduation from law school in 1940 as the only woman in her class, not being able to get around is a nasty impediment. She walked 22 blocks a day until last year. The knee.

I’m supposed to be a writer. What if I never wrote about her philosophy (become a professional, work for yourself, never hate anyone, learn the law, stay away from Worker’s Compensation), her flirtatious treatment of men, her way of addressing waitresses, “I want HOT coffee,” or her knack for lending support to all my efforts, with a touch of sarcasm? Would I go to hell? Jews don’t believe in the afterlife. Neither do I. But there must be retribution for the inability to celebrate a life that has meant something to me. What if the punishment were mediocrity?

I first saw Jerry (not her name) in 1993. She was out walking the 22 blocks, and I saw her from my office across the street. I left that office and worked for a big attorney for a while. He weighed over 250 pounds. Then I tired of the yelling and returned to Attorney Row, introduced myself to Judith and rented the office upstairs. She had Republicans in the building, a secretary and two salesmen, but because they were nice and talkative, she tolerated them and rolled her eyes when they turned away. We went to events together. The Capitol City Club. Women Lawyers’ meetings. Movies about the Holocaust. Talks by Jewish writers. Nickelodeon. She was never afraid of the R-rated. We liked Monsoon Wedding, Road to Perdition, Spellbound, the one about the bee. She made me sit through The Pianist when the musician was hiding from the Nazis. We both complained about French sadomasochism and Nicholson as a retired insurance salesman. She taught me you could demand the price of the ticket if you disliked the movie.

We talked and talked about our families. Her husbands, her children, her grandchildren. My husband and children. She went to college at 16. She played on the basketball team. Both parents wanted her to get as much education as possible. They wanted her to “become something.”

She did. What about me? If I can’t make her live through my fiction, I will freeze in the dark waters of the River Styx. I will burn in eighth circle of hell. I will rot forever in the suburbs of Columbia.

A Cautionary Tale

By Deborah W. Yoho

“Someone must have seen this happen,” I said out loud, staring at the tiny pellets of automobile glass scattered everywhere. As I opened the car door, more glass fell out of the window frame onto the front seat. That’s when I realized I had been robbed as well as vandalized; my laptop and briefcase were gone.

In broad daylight, in this neighborhood? I ran back into the Cracker Barrel and found the manager. No, no one had reported anything, she said. In sympathy, she dropped everything and waited with me by my violated Saturn SUV until the police arrived.

“We haven’t had a smash-and-grab for six months,” she told the officer.

“How often does this happen?” I shouted at her.

“A lot. But not lately.”

Is that supposed to make me feel better? I know, I know. I shouldn’t have left anything in the car, even though it was locked. “But I was only in there a half hour! And the car is within sight of the front door! At high noon! And look at all the people coming in and out!”

I spent the rest of the day getting the shattered window fixed. Eventually the laptop was replaced. But a week went by before I noticed my most serious loss. The first four chapters of my manuscript, carefully polished after hours of help from my writers’ group were, of course, backed up onto a flash drive.
But the flash drive was in the briefcase.