And the Winner Is...

Thank you, writers who submitted ideas for the "Writers' Silly Contest. We're a creative bunch, indeed, and I received some very imaginative suggestions, including the following:

• A slush of writers; Natalie Bray

• Wordies; Christina Berry, who says, "Similarly to how people who help rockstars on the road are roadies, I believe we should be called wordies." (www.ashberrylane.net)

• A weavery of writers; Ane Mulligan. (http://www.noveljourney.blogspot.com)
  

• A ream of writers; Andee Davis.

• A vocabulary of writers; Ramona K. Cecil. (http://www.ramonakcecil.com/)
  

• An imagination of writers; Kathi Linz.

• A fantasy of writers; Kathi Linz.

• A brainstorm of writers; Grace Bridges.

• A block of writers; Grace Bridges.

• A warp core of sci-fi writers; Grace Bridges.

• A scriptorium of writers; Grace Bridges.

And the winner is.................................................................................

[drum roll, please]

NATALIE BRAY!

The winner was drawn by Eli, age 4, who cannot read yet.

Book Review: ISLAND OF SAINTS by Andy Andrews

Island of Saints
A Story of the One Principle That Frees the Human Spirit
by Andy Andrews

Published by: Nelson Books, a division of Thomas Nelson Publishers, Nashville, Tennessee, 2005.

239 pages

"You must read this book."

I took the book from my friend's hand. "Is it fiction or non-fiction?"

He smiled. "Read it and decide."

This is one of the most unusual books I have ever read--and one of the best. Andrews breaks many of the rules that contemporary writers are warned against. Perhaps his most serious infraction is that he head hops; that is, he shifts point of view among the paragraphs within a scene. Such a technique keeps the reader on her toes and occasionally causes her to pause. A writer would have to be very skilled to do this well, and Andrews is quite proficient at his craft. He knows the rules, and he knows how to break them skillfully, intelligently.

It is early summer as I sit at my desk and finally begin the process of sorting what I know to be true from what I merely suspect.

Thus begins the book. The first person narrator is Andrews himself. Does that indicate that the book is non-fiction? It would seem so. But wouldn't it be an interesting twist for the writer to use himself as narrator in a work of fiction? The hook is a good one. My mind began to fill with the questions Andrews intended, questions that would propel me into the meat of the story.

While World War II figures prominently in the story, it is not the central focus. The people are. Each one has his or her own set of challenges.

Helen Mason is emotionally crippled by the untimely death of her husband and her hatred toward Germany. Josef Landermann, a U-Boat sailor, washes up onto the beach and into Helen's life, bringing with him his own set of hatreds and losses. When Helen discovers him bleeding badly from two gunshot wounds and wearing a waterlogged German sailor's uniform, she is torn between walking away, leaving him to die, and helping him to her cabin, which is nearly a mile away. Ruefully, she chooses the latter. At first, she refuses even to dress his infected wounds. But neither does she turn him over to the authorities.

Eventually wounds heal, both physical and emotional. Billy and Margaret Gilbert, proprietors of The Hungry Mullet Cafe where Helen works, know a great truth about life and how it should be lived, a truth that they share with Helen. By Christmas, Helen and Josef are considering marriage. Their lives have settled into a comfortable routine.

One day, as the two leave a store after doing some gift shopping, Josef bumps into Ernst Schneider, the Nazi spy who had tried to murder Josef. He and Helen make it to her truck and out of town, but now Schneider knows that the bullets he fired into Josef's shoulder and leg had not killed him, nor had he drowned when he fell into the Gulf of Mexico from the U-Boat. Schneider determines to finish the job, killing Helen and anyone else who dares to get in his way.

Back to the original question: is it fiction or non-fiction? Read it and decide. Andrews is a master storyteller, indeed.

Book Review: DOG GONE by Eileen Key

Dog Gone
A Feather Duster Mystery
by Eileen Key

Published by: Heartsong Presents (2008), an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc.

252 pages

Dog Gone is a fun read on several levels. First, it is not about a 20-something svelte blond. Belle Blevins is a 50-something cleaning lady with a penchant for snooping. When her friend Ginnie's business, Pampered Pooch doggie hotel and spa, is in jeopardy because of a missing dog, Belle gets on the case. Her investigation leads her from the elite world of registered dog shows into the nefarious underworld of dognappers.

This cozy mystery is made all the more cozy when Belle's nephew introduces her to Franklin Jeffries, who, as a member of a kennel club, knows something about expensive show dogs. It doesn't hurt that he is tall, tan, handsome, courteous, single, and about Belle's age.

Getting personal:
Key did a great job of keeping me guessing right up to the reveal. I hated to see the book come to an end because I like Belle. In fact, I'd love to sit down with both Key and Belle over a cup of coffee and chat. Franklin Jeffries, on the other hand, is a wee bit too perfect. I think he might intimidate me a little, at least at first.

Silly Writers' Contest . . .er . . .uh . . .Make That "Writers' Silly Contest"

A group of apes is a shrewdness.
A group of barracudas is a battery.
A group of kittens is a kindle. (Be careful what you ask for this Christmas; you just might get it. Meow!)
A group of owls is a parliament.

Got the idea?

What might one call a group of writers? Please think beyond the obvious. Venture into the ridiculous.

By submitting ideas, you grant me permission to include said ideas in an entry for this blog. Names of contributors will go into the nifty little straw hat that I wear in my profile picture, and one of my precocious grandchildren will draw the winner's name. Submit several different entries and increase your chances of winning. In the case of duplicate suggestions, the first one received will be entered.

What is the prize, you ask. Since I'm pre-published, I can hardly offer you a copy of my latest best-selling novel, but I will send you a package of genuine Ticonderoga No. 2 pencils, and you can write your own. (Rumor has it that more "great American novels" have been written with Dixon's Ticonderogas than with any other pencil, and it gets top billing in Ray Bradbury's Dandelion Wine.) All entries must be received by midnight 15 July 2009. The winner will be announced right here shortly thereafter. Enter by email, with the subject line of "Silly Contest," or by commenting to this blog entry.

Mama Said Don't Stare

Mama always warned me not to stare at people, but I've gone and become a writer. Here I sit, sipping my Komodo Dragon at Starbuck's while giving every customer the thrice-over.

Who does that woman hope to impress? Why does that man attempt to hide his large bald pate with those wispy long locks? What causes the look of despair in the eyes of that pale girl with the purple hair? Is that young man as arrogant as he seems to be, or has he just had a bad day? Why is that old gal so impatient that she feels justified in belittling the barista?

It's not so much that I stare at people as that I stare at books. I see each person as a potential protagonist or antagonist in a novel. Each one is a round character, an aggregate of comedy, tragedy, romance, melodrama, and mystery. Lacking the facts--I can hardly interview each one--I draw my own conclusions, snatching clues from their dress, stance, expression, and voice.

As I try not to stare outright, I've had to devise ways of doing so without being detected. Even Mama would approve of my latest method. I am seated in the middle chair at a three-person table. Though my back is toward at least half of the coffee shop, I face a glass display case that reflects everything behind me. Voilà!

Postscript: Mama also said that it is impolite to eavesdrop. Don't you just love cell phones?

"Let Balance Rule," She Said

I enjoyed reading the comments of my fellow American Christian Fiction Writers recently regarding the usage of attribution tags. It seems that the fashion of the day disdains the word said. We should use action beats to introduce a line of dialog:

He scratched the stubble on his chin. "That dog ain't a-gonna hunt, Cloyd."

Last year, we might have written:

"That dog ain't a-gonna hunt, Cloyd," he said.

Action beats have obvious advantages. They help to develop the character or scene. In the example above, we know that the speaker doesn't shave regularly (or has been in a situation where shaving was not a priority). Scratching at his chin may be an idiosyncrasy. Action beats also let the reader know who is speaking while eliminating the need for a tag. I use them whenever possible, if they fulfill their intended purpose.

Conversely, if the action beat seems stilted and artificial, interrupting the flow and rhythm of the work, it becomes little more than verbal baggage and should be checked. I'm in the process of revising and editing a middle-grade manuscript. As I snip, clip, and trim away at it to get it down to around 36,000 to 37,000 words, I find myself weighing every phrase and clause. Exchanging a said for an action beat adds words. If I decide that the beat is worth it, then I try to trim somewhere else.

Of course, if only two people are speaking, the writer can move through a few lines of dialog without either a beat or a tag.

While I am not yet a published novelist, a couple editors have evaluated my manuscripts and commented that they flow well. I use said when it's needed, action beats when they serve to develop and enrich a character or scene, and nothing when possible. As with most things, balance is key. Since both editors requested to see the completed manuscripts, I must be doing something right.

Slow and Steady Wins

My friend smiled as she waited to greet me at the church door. "You must have a tremendous store of patience and perseverance."

"Why do you say that?" I said.

"Well, your bad knees force you to walk so slowly, but they don't hold you back from doing what needs doing."

I should hope not. There's too much to be done. I have books to write, dreams to dream, classes to teach, workshops to conduct, stories to tell, grandchildren to schnuggle (don't try to find that one on dictionary.com), songs to sing, spoons to play, books to read, and mountains to climb (figuratively speaking, I'm afraid). It's good that I don't write books or tell stories with my knees.

I have a storytelling friend who has chosen the turtle as her mascot. She also has some physical limitations, but nothing that interferes with her ability to spin a fine yarn. I tried to think of other slow-moving creatures in God's zoo that would suit me.

A sloth? No. Bad connotation. I certainly wouldn't want potential agents or editors to think that I sit around doing little other than growing moss in my hair.

A snail? Too slimy.

An inchworm? Not bad, but easily squished. Besides, I'm more of a Type B personality. Inchworms definitely are Type A's.

A tortoise? That's it! But is it too similar to a turtle? Would that be considered plagiarism?

Actually, the tortoise has much to recommend it. It's the MC of a beloved folktale. Its slow, steady pace wins for it the race. It's not afraid to stick its neck out, but knows when to briefly retreat. It carries its home with it. (For me, home is wherever Jesus Christ is.) It is impervious to those who would say, "You can't do it."

The tortoise makes its deadline. Remember? It has a tremendous store of patience and perseverance.

A fresh pot of coffee doesn't hurt, either.

Note: The lovely illustration that accompanies this posting is by author/illustrator Arlene Graston and is copyrighted. She graciously granted me permission to include it.

Getting an MFA the Hard Way: Part One

This week my writers' group met. (Random thought: why do we claim ownership of anything we're involved in? It's my group, my church, my home town.) Five of us gathered to mull over our work and gnaw on a couple conundrums. One writer wrestled with how to present five POVs in her lengthy fantasy novel, while another struggled to find words to describe the smells of an Amish restaurant when she herself has no sense of smell or taste. For nearly 90 minutes ideas bounced around the table like an erratic ping-pong ball.

I was the only one of the five who was an original member of the group. The others have come within the last three or four years. We've talked about how to draw more people to our meetings. It's a paradox, because we're not sure that we want more. Perhaps I should say need, rather than want. Back in the early days when we numbered ten or twelve at a meeting, we seldom had time for everyone to read even snippets of their work. A smaller group allows for that, and I love the exercise.

We five, along with a couple others who couldn't attend this month, form a nucleus of what I call serious writers. We readily learn from one another at the meetings and throughout the month via our Yahoo group. While I cannot speak for the others, I feel that I am working toward an informal MFA by studying my craft through books, online resources, participation in SCBWI and ACFW, and dialog with other writers, editors, and agents.

"This is work," said one of our SIWS members. It is. And we revel in it.

Happy Poetry Month!

Storytrance

Disbelief
dangles above our heads
while he stands
like a spectre
shrouded in smoke and
backlighted by the campfire.
Haints hover just outside
the ring of light
waiting to creep closer as the
fire wanes.
Dragonbreath
blows away the chill bumps
temporarily
but they return
when giants clamber through the woods
hehind us.
Faerie folk wish we'd leave
so they could claim our circle
and dance their rhyme
but we can't.
We're rooted to log seats
eyes glazed
jaws slack
hearts first slow
then race
all beating as one with the
cadence of the storyteller's voice as
tricksters and troubadours
strangers and waifs
strut among the fire's flame
and ride the backs of
donkeys and dragons.
Then he stops
sits
becomes human again
but another rises
and we're ready.
Once upon a time
somewhere
beyond the Silver Sea
beyond the Azure Forest
beyond the Glass Mountain
beyond the Straw Town
there was
and there was not...

Copyright 2001 by Sharon Kirk Clifton

I Break for Poetry

Blossoms, like snow, drift
and blow on the roof next door--
spring's fragrant blizzard.