07/21/2010

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A Short Story By Kirk B. Young

I was five years old the first time he looked at me. It was the middle of the night; I had chicken pox and I'd been scratching feverishly at my body all day only to be put to bed wrapped up in a wool blanket. You'd hope it was a cruel joke and not just malevolence, and truth be told it was neither. Auntie Lilith never had any children of her own, and when she looked after me during the summer months it had always seemed more of a neutrality with which she approached my presence there.

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Writing Vertically and Horizontally

By Jessica Quillin

In what ways should you think about marketing your work while writing? To what degree should you think about how what you write connects with the rest of your portfolio or is representative of the topic about which you are writing?

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By Sarah Schiavoni

I’m not quite sure how I got started on Philippa Gregory’s books. I’ve always been interested in England and its rich history, so perhaps I caught a glimpse of one of her titles on a bookstore shelf and thought I’d give it a chance. Even if I can’t remember which of her books I read first, I do remember falling in love with historical fiction and becoming hooked on her writing. I’ve read and bought so many of her works, they now fill up a whole shelf in my bookcase (and are starting to creep onto the shelf below). I hadn’t read any of her books for at least a year, having thought I’d read most of them already. But when I saw The White Queen, a book I was unfamiliar with, displayed in a bookstore, I picked it up. Like her previous novels, this newest book didn’t disappoint me.

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By L.L. McKinney

Last week we touched on what I believe is the most serious condition that ails us as writers: procrastination. I bet some people thought I was going to say something like writer’s block. Being unable to think of what to write, or how to proceed with writing, is indeed a serious matter, but in order to discover that you suffer from writer’s block you have to have sat down and tried to write something.
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WNW talks with author Marlis Day

We recently spoke with Marlis Day, author of the Margo Brown Mystery series (Why Johnny Died, Death of a Hoosier Schoolmaster, and The Curriculum Murders) and The Secret of Baileys Chase, the first book in the Adventures in Bailey’s Chase young adult book series.

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By Kirk B. Young

I was five years old the first time he looked at me. It was the middle of the night; I had chicken pox and I'd been scratching feverishly at my body all day only to be put to bed wrapped up in a wool blanket. You'd hope it was a cruel joke and not just malevolence, and truth be told it was neither. Auntie Lilith never had any children of her own, and when she looked after me during the summer months it had always seemed more of a neutrality with which she approached my presence there. Being her sister's child, she'd look after me when needed, but her general disdain for most children and other people led her to spend more time in the garden with her adopted saplings than with me. I and my largely uninterrupted play time were fine with this arrangement, even when confined to the bedroom for the day with my pox.
So yes, without giving it much thought Auntie Lilith wrapped me up in a woolen blanket, tucked me in, and then turned out the lights and went downstairs. And I began to itch. And itch. And itch.
Eventually I thought whatever the five year old version of “to hell with this” is and threw the blanket off of myself, finding enough momentary relief in the absence of any friction against my skin other than cool air from the window to fall into a slumber.
It was some time later that I woke with a start, eyes fixing on the popcorn ceiling above and wondering how many little nubs there were above me in hopes of boring myself back to sleep. But it didn’t take, so I sighed and looked out the window to my right and that’s when I began to feel it. Even a child can feel it: the sensation of being watched. Normally when this happens in the middle of the night you will look and find no one there staring back at you other than your own imagination, its eyes having already bored holes into your paranoid mind.
I looked slowly, thinking the sensation might fade before my eyes had crossed the room, but I didn’t rotate long before setting my sights on a dark figure in my doorway, a man, very tall, with a somewhat thinner build. I could see no facial features in the dark other than his eyes, bathed by a strip of light falling just perfectly across his sockets. Was it by chance? Did he position himself purposely? I wanted to think the former while experience tells me it’s the latter.
He didn’t say anything. I had no idea who he was, but being five even the shadiest of figures were innocent until they indicated otherwise in my eyes, so I assumed he was in the right place, standing there in the doorway where he was supposed to, because the world was wondrous and wide and I found something new each day and surely this man must just be another part of life, another adult to buy me toys or read me a story or take me to the carnival as my father had a week before.
“What’s your name?” I asked him, because above all else five year olds want to know how to address the person from whom they’ll soon ask for things, and in order to do that they need a name.
But he didn’t answer, so I frowned, and rolled over in bed onto my other side so as to not have to acknowledge him. I now sometimes wish I was still capable of as much indignation as I was then. Alas.
I shut my eyes and tried to sleep, but failed to do so. After awhile I opened them and stared at the wall. There was no shadow cast there by the moon shining through the window behind me, but I felt as if he was indeed standing there. It was at this point that I became scared.
The floorboard creaked behind me. I heard the rustle of fabric.
I turned over, starting to say “what are you doin' mister?” but only made it to the point of uttering “what,” because as I turned the wool blanket was thrown down over my face and body, smothering me in its itchy warmth.
I screamed and began flailing wildly, and managed to roll off of the bed, the blanket coming with me, intertwined amongst my legs and arms, and once I hit the wooden floor I instantly pushed up in my wild movements, tearing myself out of the thorny fabric and breathing as heavily as a child can I bolted for the door, not even looking to see if the man was still in the room.

Auntie Lilith scolded me the next morning for getting out of bed and sleeping on the couch downstairs. She said I was spreading my germs and that she might be getting sick because of me.
But she never asked me why I went down there.

The fall came and once Mother and Dad were back I was able to return home. After getting through the chicken pox and a particularly bad spell of the summer flu at Auntie Lilith’s, I hadn’t given much more thought to the man, but one night after dinner we were watching the television and whatever was on reminded me somehow, so I asked Mother about the man who lived with Auntie Lilith. She was quite confused, telling me I was foolish and that Auntie Lilith lived alone: my uncle had died in a fire many years before I was born and apparently Auntie Lilith had chosen a life of solitude ever since. I was the more confused of the two of us, but there are times as children that we accept things that don’t make sense for no particular reason, and this was one of those times for me.

Another year passed and it was time to go to Auntie Lilith’s for the summer once again. By that time I had forgotten completely about the experience I’d had the previous year, other than the bouts with sickness. Since I was feeling stronger and bigger though, I thought for sure I wouldn’t even catch cold that year.
Sometime about halfway through the summer, I was laying under that wool blanket itching something fierce again, so I pushed it off and fell asleep to the gentle caress of the cool breeze coming through the window on my skin.
I woke in the middle of the night, and once again found that man staring at me from the doorway. I frowned at this, knowing right away he wasn’t going to say a thing. Rather than face his silence, I thought it better to cut short our dance and turn away from him as I had a year before. Once again, I was unable to sleep and felt him standing behind me, so I turned to see what it was he wanted.
I should’ve known. Once again that blanket was cast upon me, heavier than before, he was pushing it down on me – I flailed and escaped just as I had before and this time I spent the night on the couch downstairs and I was up the next day and eating breakfast before Auntie Lilith even heard her alarm clock go off. I was perturbed, but being a child, I would prove rather resilient.

The incident reoccurred, year after year. As I got older and became more aware of time I realized it was on the same day each year. By the time I was eight I understood it was a recurring experience and began to spend that night on the couch downstairs. Adaptation is survival. I read that in a book many years later, and felt pretty proud of myself for having implemented such a strategic existence before having any idea it was strategic, much less what the word “strategic” meant.
Each year my mother would ask me if Auntie Lilith had had any more male visitors late at night and each year I would answer that I had seen the same one. Each year she’d laugh, brushing it off, chalking it up to my active imagination.

When I was eleven, it was different. Perhaps Auntie Lilith had grown tired of my presence year after year, perhaps she began expecting some form of payment as I got older, but in any case, the face that greeted me upon arrival that summer was not one of a friendly nature, nor were the parting words with my parents. Mother just looked at me in that way she would when appropriate, it was better than saying “well son, this is just the way of the world sometimes.” But I knew what it meant.
It only got worse from there. Auntie Lilith was miserable to me that summer, and though I was no perfect child, I knew from being around my classmates that I was one of the better ones. I did chores before I played, I kept to myself and wasn’t an unnecessary nuisance, I read and learned and retained and I was hungry to know what the world was truly made of and had to offer me. She was not appreciative of any of these traits.
As we came closer to the date of the incident Auntie Lilith became more and more agitated. She stopped making me meals after the first few weeks of my stay there, and when she would shuffle through the kitchen in her silent way, she’d glare at me as I prepared myself a sandwich, as if I had no right to her food while I was in her care. I learned to ignore it after only a few days, as I was a wise man of the world, and had learned from talking to my schoolmates that if she was this wound up it meant one of two things: she was either aching for the kiss of a man, or she was on something called PMS, which after much playground debate we determined stood for “Pretty Mad Son-of-a-bitch” despite my protests that a woman couldn’t be a son of an anything. My friends weren’t as quick as I though, and I was overruled.
   
On the day before the incident, I was reading upstairs in the bedroom when I heard a great commotion of pots and pans downstairs. I rushed down to ensure Auntie Lilith was okay, and when I found her she was cursing so vehemently I thought for sure she’d cut or struck herself with one of the items cluttered about the floor. When I entered she gave me a glare that would scare the devil and shouted “Look what you did! All my pots and pans are all over the place because I was going to make you dinner, you little bastard! Go upstairs and think about what you’ve done!”
I must have betrayed my confusion with my facial expression because she quickly stomped her way through the mess to where I stood on the other side of the kitchen and smacked me right across the face. It was so hard and I was so unprepared that I actually fell down at the foot of the stairs there, not even crying because I was so unsure of what was happening.
“Don’t come back downstairs until I tell you!”
With that she picked me up and smacked me on the bottom and I made my way up the stairs as quickly as I could. Had I been my younger indignant self I might have called back to her “that didn’t hurt, not like when Daddy does it!” Perhaps it’s better that I didn’t.
I finished reading my book on the bed, the wool blanket pushed to my side. Every once in awhile I heard a door slam downstairs, and at one point I was sure I’d heard the front door shut and the truck drive away for a time, returning later, but as the bedroom was on the back side of the house I wasn’t able to confirm my suspicions. Once I was done with the reading material, I sat there quite bored for the remainder of the evening. Eventually my boredom became so severe that I was able to fall asleep.
   
I woke at the expected time, though I’d forgotten about my appointment in all the day’s commotion, and found that this year was different than all those before. The man was standing at the door, but it was closed, and he was in the room in front of it. It would be the last time he looked at me.
The room was on fire.
The flames were high, licking the popcorn nubs of the ceiling, and lining the floorboards all around my bed. I looked to the window, but with the fire being taller than I would be, even standing on the bed, it was a lost cause and I knew it. I would jump through the flame but before I could unlock and raise the window I would most certainly be a marshmallow.
It was then that I looked at the man in panic, and realized he was standing in the midst of the flames. It was a sight beyond comprehension, reminding me at the time of a 3D film or the optical illusions where you must set your eyes on them just right in order to see the image – in this case, a man consumed by fire but totally unaffected. But because he was well lit in this setting I was able to see that his clothes looked as if they were already charred and blackened, though I could see the flames licking him hadn’t even begun to abate yet.
Then he was moving toward me, and my eyes would have gone wide with anticipation if I hadn’t been afraid they would melt out of my sockets from the nearby heat, and then we broke our cycle because this time I didn’t flip over and away from him, I looked up and at him, right into his eyes. They were blue, and beautiful, and yet they seemed hollow somehow, as if his soul had dipped down into the darkest recesses of his being. That, or it had ballooned out and manifested itself in his image.
The wool blanket was forced down on me. I only struggled minimally this time, knowing that the fire was around my bed and would soon be upon me. I couldn’t roll off. I couldn’t fight it. So I resigned to my fate inside my itchy wool capsule.
And then I was lifted.
And held.

I do not know how much time passed. It felt like ages. But after a long while, I was set onto the ground, quite gingerly in fact, which I interpreted as a sign that I could eject myself from the wool cocoon in which I had been hidden.
Emerging I found the entire room burnt to the blackest bits of crumbly dust. It was dark, but I could hear the owls and frogs outside much clearer than before, and then I realized: there were no walls.
At that point a fireman came up what remained of the stairs and carefully entered the remains of the room, and the look on his face alerted me to the fact that I shouldn’t have been there.
I have slept under a wool blanket every night since then.

I never stayed at Auntie Lilith’s again after that. I wasn’t ever told I would have to, and I did not ask to do so. In fact, the next time I saw Auntie Lilith was at her funeral five years later. She had burned to death after her stove caught fire while cooking one evening. The fire department said it was a freak and unfortunate accident.
I believe it was a premeditated plan that finally came full circle. Her dinner that night came, and it was uppance.
And he waited too long to serve it to her, if you ask me.

by Amanda Kunz
 
Black asphalt or brick lain streets
The Bayer sign erratic in the distance
Baseball fans from the Park
Groan
In disbelief of another thrashing
 
Running along the banks of The Point
The account of battles past bleed in the soil
Above, children bathe in the fountain
Their parents
Surveying
The joyous soggy faces
 
Aged city sidewalks carry the journeys
Of busy people on their own itineraries
The urban decay of this town
Corrodes no one

By Elizabeth Milo

I remember the 90s fondly: Pogs, Pokémon, boy bands, bleach-blond highlights, and Britney Spears.  Those were the days of midriff-exposing tops and boxer-baring pants, and of new trends like coffee shops and cell phones.  But what I remember as a defining component of the 90s was what was on TV.  This was the heyday of NBC—they had shows on like Friends, Frasier, ER, Will & Grace, Seinfeld, and Mad About You.  They were in the second decade of a 20-year winning streak, and when they coined their Thursday night catch phrase, “Must See TV,” it was true.  Anybody who was anybody was watching at least a couple of the NBC mega-hits, and the best part was it was free.

This year when they announced the Emmy nominations for the 2009-2010 season, I, like any good fan, was rooting for my favorites.  Of course I’m somewhat prejudiced, but I had pretty reasonable expectations about which shows on my short list were good enough to get Emmy nods.  The Office has been reeling in critical acclaim since day one; Glee was a surprise smash hit because of its unique concept and hilarious cast; Hugh Laurie was just fantastic in this past season of House. But there was one Emmy nomination I was hoping and praying for, one actor who I thought was heads above the rest, whose supporting role literally made the show: John Noble. As Dr. Walter Bishop in Fringe, Noble consistently gives one of the most brilliant acting performances on television. I wasn’t naive enough to think the show would actually get a nod—sci-fi isn’t everyone’s cup of tea—but the acting! Ah, the acting.

Did he get the nod? Of course not, but you probably already guessed that.  When I heard the news, I ranted and raved to the few people who would listen to me and act sympathetic, and then I tried to move on. I went back to look at the complete list of nominees (once I could muster the courage), and I noticed something that stopped me right in my tracks on the path to recovery: of six shows nominated for best dramatic series, only one of them was on network television, and that one (Lost) just ended.  In the comedy department, only two of the six nominees were not from a network, but significantly they were from the premium channels Showtime and HBO. Then I spent way too much time tallying all the totals.  Here are my findings:

Out of the 13 major categories, a total of 75 nomination slots, only 37 different shows were nominated, which means on average every show would be     nominated twice. But that was not the case.  The top 7 shows took up 31 spaces, so 9% of the shows garnered 41% of the nominations.

“So what?” you may say, “Those may have been really great shows.”
“Okay, okay,” I say, “but what about this?”:

Each of the four major networks took a fairly even share of the nominations; CBS     had 12, ABC took 12, FOX had 8, and NBC took a surprising 13 (surprising, considering it is consistently in last place in terms of ratings). This total comes to 45 Emmy nods, which means the other 30 nominations went to cable channels. That’s 40% of the nominations going to shows that aren’t free to the general public.  And of those 30 nominations, 9 of them were for shows that are on premium cable channels such as HBO and Showtime.  That’s more nominations     than FOX had!

What seems completely wrong to me about this situation is the lack of opportunity for the general public to view these supposedly fantastic shows.  I’m not head-over-heels about the content either.  Call me old-fashioned, by I find it a little bit icky when we’re celebrating shows where the protagonist, the person you are by definition rooting for, is an undetected serial killer (Dexter), or a meth dealer (Breaking Bad), or an adulterer and male chauvinist (Mad Men). Of course those shows which are all on cable channels don’t have as stringent FCC regulations as the networks do, holding them back from airing whatever content they like.  But beyond whatever social qualms I may have with these shows, it’s the unnatural control of the industry by the academy that really bugs me.  Almost half the shows nominated for Emmys are on channels for which you have to pay, which encourages non-subscribers to sign-up for those channels.  If people see that Mad Men tied for most Emmy nominations with a whopping 6 nods, they will be much more inclined to fork over the extra cash in order to see that show.  The Emmy board is, in a way, controlling the market by encouraging viewers to pay for the privilege of watching shows that they deem exceptional.  Does this seem suspicious to anyone else?

I’m not ashamed to admit that I like television. I have enough other things going on in my life that it doesn’t consume me, but there are a number of shows that I religiously watch. And then there are a handful that I watch whenever I have some spare time and a couple episodes to catch up on. And then there are shows that I’ve had recommended to me over and over again but I never get around to watching because I’m too busy with the first two lists.  Maybe it’s my lack of ability to watch every show that’s passed on to me which clouds my judgment about the state of television. But if the Emmy nominations are any indication, we are leaving behind the dynasty of great, free network television and entering the era of pay-for-your-privilege cable.

In what ways should you think about marketing your work while writing? To what degree should you think about how what you write connects with the rest of your portfolio or is representative of the topic about which you are writing?

The world of new media brings with it a host of acronyms, tools, and other mysteries, many of which are useful for writers. In soliciting advice on setting up my blog and then website, many sources have told me of the benefits of new media tools, such as SEOs (Search Engine Optimizers), keywords, links, and other various forms of tagging, which are necessary and important tools for any writer looking to author content for the web.

While I do not deny the power and importance of these tools, as a writer with a new business, it is dizzying to think that I’m supposed to be doubly (as in two times over) conscious of the full proportions of writing, i.e. its vertical and horizontal components.

In the marketing world, vertical marketing refers to targeting professionals in specific industries, such as health/wellness providers or educational publishers, whereas horizontal marketing is distinguished by the identification of a target audience that shares characteristics across industries, such as copyeditors or human resource professionals.

For the web, vertical and horizontal marketing are powerful concepts due to the diverse, worldwide audience who now have access to an almost endless amount of knowledge as well as to the ease of locating and tracking information.  All of this is important for writers because it is now possible to get a quick snapshot of ideas that are of common interest to people across different walks of life in comparison with concepts that appeal to a more niche audience.

Yet, normal writing has vertical and horizontal components, anyway. The vertical dimension of writing refers to the degree to which your writing has a consistent style, theme, or feel to other work that you have done. With a blog, this would be the dimension by which you should try to write your entries in a style similar to other entries.

By corollary, the horizontal component of writing refers to how something you write on a topic links to or compares to other work on the same topic. This concept exemplifies the urgency within any writing to be authentic and accurate by citing and sourcing information to back up what you say.

But putting a two-dimensional article on a website with the capability of linking your writing not only to other things that you have written but also to other sources or other writers’ work establishes a complex linguistic and informational matrix with endless creative and stylistic opportunities.

The flexibility of new media content is, of course, exciting, particularly from a business development perspective. Yet, I find it overwhelming at times when writing articles for the web to maintain focus on my topic while making sure that I include enough links, photos, and other elements to keep my readers interested. Did I forget a link? Is what I’m writing accessible? Did I forget to source anything? Does this blog entry have a consistent “voice” with other entries on my site?

As I briefly mentioned in last week’s column, part of the impetus of my new company is to provide clients with relevant, research-based content and to help them to design workable communications and marketing strategies for building their respective brands.

I always tell clients that effective communication boils down to three steps: first, you need a singular concept or vision; second, you must have a sustainable strategic plan for communicating your message; and third, you should apply the principles of good writing to your message by articulating what you say in clear, well-written language that is appropriate for your target audience.

Unfortunately, this means that when writing for the web, a writer or company wanting to establish a unique brand presence needs to be highly conscious of the degree to which his or her writing or web site has internal consistency, parallels or excels the quality of work by competitors, and reflects the general standard for web content across industries.

Obviously, this multi-dimensionality to writing is equally true for print publications. Yet, the ease of web search functions means that readers are able to gauge your work much more quickly in comparison with that of other writers and are possibly twice as critical in forming an opinion about what you write due to the glut of information now available on most topics.

As a result, I am constantly anxious about my own blog, its style, and its readership. I started my blog as an experiment to see if I could garner interest in an essay-driven site that covers a variety of subjects from the arts to literature and education. However, I quickly realized that my chosen topics were too diffuse, an approach that likely would confuse—and thus turn away—readers. This realization threw me into a bit of a blog crisis, which didn’t help since, as I mentioned in my last column, I was already wondering about the utility of keeping this blog in the face of my growing need for a company website.

So, thinking of the vertical and horizontal dimensions of writing, how do you make your work topical, market it to your desired audience, and maintain your own style at the same time?
For me, the solution was a matter of focus. To resolve my blog crisis, I decided to follow my own advice and devised a blog plan. Keeping up with current trends and researching other sites, I now am trying to focus my writing on a core of arts, lifestyle, and literary topics, which builds upon entries that I like and points me in the direction of my goal of an arts and culture magazine.
Now, how to make sense of this blog in context of the wider work of my writing-related business….

Jessica Quillin owns Quillin Consulting, LLC, a consultancy in Washington, DC, focused on content development, research, and strategy for the public and private sectors. She holds a Ph.D. in English literature from the University of Cambridge.

Last week we touched on what I believe is the most serious condition that ails us as writers: procrastination. I bet some people thought I was going to say something like writer’s block. Being unable to think of what to write, or how to proceed with writing, is indeed a serious matter, but in order to discover that you suffer from writer’s block you have to have sat down and tried to write something. If you procrastinate, you don’t even get that far. See the difference? If you have a case of writer’s block, don’t despair. It means you are at least trying to get something done.

I promise I’ll touch on a few exercises that I use to break through the writer’s block during a later article, but this week, we’ll get to the core of what comes after finishing a manuscript. I did some digging to find opinions on what comes after typing that final word for a first draft. I read countless blogs from agents, editors, published writers of all genres (fiction and non-fiction alike) and found myself rather surprised at the proposed course of action. Actually, it’s more like inaction.

Wait.

That’s not an order, that’s the step: wait. The general consensus is to put the manuscript down and step away from it. Take a break. Cut the umbilical cord. You not only need to, you deserve it. You’ve done something many only dream of doing. Lots of people talk about writing books, but not many take the time and effort to see it through. Granted, the market seems to be saturated with people aspiring to be the next J.K. Rowling (myself included) but in comparison to the number of people that walk this planet, there aren’t that many of us. Once you’ve joined the club, you can relax for a minute. Cookies and punch are in the foyer.

One reason for the prescribed break is the same reason we need someone else to edit and critique our work: we’re too close to it. We can’t look at it with a fresh eye and see the homonyms we have scattered about, let alone massive plot holes. I know it’s hard—at least it was for me—but the best thing we can do with our work is set it in a desk drawer or lock it away in a folder on our computer. For how long? I’ve read that the break should last anywhere from two to six weeks.

Now, some might raise the point that published writers that they know—personally or otherwise—finish their first draft and turn around to start working on the second only a few days later. While this is often true, we have to understand that there is a big difference between their situation and ours: the word “published.” Traditionally, published writers have already sold their first manuscript, meaning that the circumstances on which this column focuses do not apply. Those writers have already polished their work enough to snag an agent, which is what we’re working towards, and we still have a lot to do. Not to mention a published writer has a deadline to meet, so they may not have the time to let their work settle.

I myself am going to try the longer end of the spectrum and leave SWAYED alone for a full six weeks. So far, I’m only one week into it. It drove me a little batty at first; I was dying to pull my first draft out and keep at it while the fire was still hot. In the end, I talked myself into doing what was right for my work instead of what seemed right for me. That is what is important in the end, right? Work we can be proud to label as ours. We have to get out of our own way sometimes. So I told myself to man-up a bit and put my toys away for a little while. Then the darnedest thing happened: I found out that the waiting thing is not so bad. In fact, I rather enjoy it. Why is that? Because I’m working on other ideas for books, and if you’re like me or many other writers, then you’ve got a ton of them just waiting to hit the page. While we let our first drafts settle wherever we’ve hidden them, this is the time to work on other projects. I am already halfway through another manuscript (at least I think it’s halfway; I won’t know until I finish it). But just because we pause one thing does not mean we have to stop writing entirely. I’m hoping to finish the first draft of my current work in progress, HERITAGE BLADE: AWAKENING, before my six weeks are up. This is one way to occupy that time.

Another way to keep busy is with writing groups. Next week’s article will cover finding the right group and what it means to be a part of one. You want a group that mirrors as much of what you’re trying to do with your work as possible. When you do find the right one, you can bring your first draft to them for critiques. I’ll be the first (though I’m probably the millionth) to say that having beta readers I trust and that I believe know their stuff is a good thing. Keep in mind, just because you take your first draft to a group does not mean you should start working on it before your break is over. I’m not working on SWAYED even though I’m presenting it to my group. I just go to the meetings, take notes, collect my marked-up copies and then store them away. When it’s time to start the second draft, I’ll pull them out and use them.

So, Step 1 after completing the first draft of a manuscript: celebrate! And then take a breather, anywhere from two to six weeks. There are plenty of things to do during that time, including the two options mentioned above. Whatever works for you is fine, so long as you take that break. You’re gonna need it.

“One of the great rules of art: do not linger.” André Gide

Happy writing!

L.L. McKinney is a freelance writer, a published poet and a playwright. As an active member of First Tuesdays and YA Lit Chat, she is currently seeking representation for her young adult paranormal urban fantasy, Swayed.

By Carole Shmurak

Josephine Tey (whose real name was Elizabeth MacKintosh) was a recluse, and little is known about her private life. What she did during World War II is unknown. What we do know is that immediately after the war, she published six amazing mystery novels. Miss Pym Disposes was the first of these.

Is Miss Pym Disposes really a mystery novel? No body appears for over 200 pages. Miss Pym herself is hardly a detective. It is much more a novel of character, with an ending that examines how a crime may affect the lives of some of the people involved.

Lucy Pym starts out as a comic character. A French teacher, she inherits some money, which allows her to quit her job. She then reads a book on psychology, which she finds ridiculous, and goes on to read thirty-six more that she finds equally silly. At last she writes her own psychology book and becomes a celebrity, the darling of the British publishing world and a speaker to learned societies. Invited by an old school friend to give a guest lecture at a school of athletic training for young women, Lucy becomes enchanted with the school and especially with its enthusiastic students and ends up staying much longer than she had planned.

Tey herself had attended such a school, and she knew the milieu well. She also had the amazing ability to make almost all the characters at the school both realistic and likable: the irrepressible Dakers, the beautiful and popular Nash, the brilliant Innes, and the somewhat cynical Brazilian student Desterro are the standouts. The latter, known to her classmates as The Nut Tart, serves an important function both to the novel and to Miss Pym; as an outsider who nonetheless lives inside the school, she provides a more objective view of her classmates and the school itself.

The title of the book comes from the quotation, “Man proposes, God disposes.” There is much discussion in the last fifty pages of “playing God,” and indeed, Miss Pym, after much soul-searching, does take actions that are outside the rules of the school and outside the law.

The ending of the book has a devastating surprise for the first-time reader. But even more interesting to me, as a person who has read the book many times, is that there are multiple possible interpretations of what happened. I’ve discussed this book before with one book group, and we had all come to the same conclusion about who did what and why. This time, with another book group, one person in the group (who happens to be my husband) came up with an alternate explanation. Try as we might, none of us could come up with anything in the book that could contradict that interpretation. A wonderful discussion resulted — about psychology, morality, and writing. That this entertaining little book written over sixty years ago could provoke such a discussion is a tribute to the skill of the author.

Carole B. Shmurak, Ph.D., is the co-author of the Matty Trescott series of young adult novels, one of which was nominated for the 2001 Agatha Award for Best YA Mystery. Her book Voices of Hope was named "Critic's Choice" by the American Educational Studies Association. Deadmistress, the first book in the Susan Lombardi series, was named a Notable Book of 2004 by Writers' Notes Magazine.

By Sarah Schiavoni

I’m not quite sure how I got started on Philippa Gregory’s books. I’ve always been interested in England and its rich history, so perhaps I caught a glimpse of one of her titles on a bookstore shelf and thought I’d give it a chance. Even if I can’t remember which of her books I read first, I do remember falling in love with historical fiction and becoming hooked on her writing. I’ve read and bought so many of her works, they now fill up a whole shelf in my bookcase (and are starting to creep onto the shelf below). I hadn’t read any of her books for at least a year, having thought I’d read most of them already. But when I saw The White Queen, a book I was unfamiliar with, displayed in a bookstore, I picked it up. Like her previous novels, this newest book didn’t disappoint me.

The White Queen follows the story of Elizabeth Woodville, of the House of Lancaster, who was recently widowed and left to raise two young sons when her husband was killed in battle. With a great desire to improve her life and gain back her home during the war-filled times, Elizabeth appeals to King Edward IV, of the House of York, for help. Through her beauty and charm, plus a little help from her mother’s supposed witchcraft, she claims the king’s heart and secretly marries him while he struggles to keep his recently attained throne from the ill former king and his wife. The new couple takes their place as the leaders of England, but while the old king and other claimants of the throne still live, the wars between the House of Lancaster and the House of York seem never-ending. Violent conflict, passionate love, betrayal, and murder swirl through Elizabeth’s life as the Queen of England while she tries to keep her family safe and keep her husband on the throne.

What is perhaps most interesting about Elizabeth Woodville is that she is the mother of the fabled Princes of the Tower, whose fates remain unknown. When her brother-in-law, King Richard III, took control of England, he placed her two sons in the Tower of London, where, in 1483, they disappeared without a trace. This mystery has confounded historians for years, but Gregory, with her own extensive knowledge of the time period, suggests her own explanation for what happened, and this is a central part of the story.

I thoroughly enjoyed The White Queen and all of Philippa Gregory’s other historical fiction.  She is an established historian, and her extensive knowledge of the Tudor family and the Plantagenet family shows in each book she writes. She creates engaging stories with facts and history scattered throughout, and I highly recommend her books to everyone, especially those interested in the history of the royal families of England.

By Christopher Stokum and Sarah Schiavoni

We recently spoke with Marlis Day, author of the Margo Brown Mystery series (Why Johnny Died, Death of a Hoosier Schoolmaster, and The Curriculum Murders) and The Secret of Baileys Chase, the first book in the Adventures in Bailey’s Chase young adult book series.

WNW: How was your experience at Printer’s Row (June 12-13 this year)?
Day: It was truly a great experience. I not only got to know other Echelon authors, but I got to meet so many Chicago-area readers. Next time, I will remember Chicago’s reputation for being cool and windy and take a jacket.

WNW: In the Margo Brown series, the detective is a school teacher. How much did your own experiences as a teacher influence the development of your character?
Day: Honestly, Margo Brown is very much like me in my earlier teaching days. Of course, she’s smarter, prettier, and much braver than I.

WNW: Did you have any other fellow teachers in mind when you were developing this character?
Day: No, but I did pattern Margo’s sidekick, Roxie, after a fellow teacher and friend. Every school has one quirky teacher—funny and original. Mine was a science teacher named Sandy. I asked her if I could use her as a model for Roxie and she said, “Oh, what the hell.” I’m sure she thought my big book idea wouldn’t fly. But it did and Roxie remained faithful to Margo through all three books.

WNW: Did any of your experiences in the classroom work their way into your Margo Brown books?
Day: Absolutely. I had my own “Johnny Benson”—a boy neglected but bright, who didn’t die but was actually reared by an inept mother who tied him to the clothesline as a toddler, so she could to go town. He didn’t talk because no one talked to him. When he entered school, teachers thought he was mentally retarded and put him into special education classes. He soon learned to talk and read and surpassed the other children. His grandmother took custody and his life improved but he was still damaged by his early years. Always overweight and awkward around his peers, he smiled and lived in his books. Now, he’s working on a PhD in physics at a major university.

WNW: What prompted the move from adult books to young adult books?
Day: After teaching and reading to middle-grade children for over 30 years, I retired from the classroom. I missed the children. I decided if I wrote some middle-grade novels, I could visit classrooms to read and discuss the books with children. And I did. I visited 26 schools last year.

WNW: What have you been able to explore in young adult books that you weren’t able to in books for adults?
Day: The wholesome purity and innocence of children.

WNW: How is writing a mystery for young readers different than writing mysteries for adults?
Day: In some ways, it’s harder. You have to think like a child. My characters are 10-13 years old and I have to ask myself how they would respond.

WNW: What young adult authors have influenced your most recent writing?
Day: J.K. Rowling’s books swept the nation and I agree that they are delightful. However, a majority of the main characters, aside from Hermione, are boys. I wanted to write a book about strong girls. Girls with super powers. Girls who take on the world and fight bullies, injustice, and crime. There is a boy, Newt, who is a neighbor and best friend to the girls. Newt is a boy genius but has no super powers. He goes along with the girls and gives advice, sharing many of their adventures. They can’t tell him of their powers or they will lose them. It’s hard for them.

WNW: Do you plan to work solely on young adult books or do you plan to write more adult books?
Day: People ask me to write another Margo Brown book, but I don’t know if I will or not. I have one in my mind but nothing on paper. I had planned for Sparky’s and Grey’s adventures to be a two-book set. It is finished. So at this point, I have not decided.

WNW: Since you’re retired and your children are grown, you don’t have to worry so much about balancing your writing career with other activities. What sort of writing regime do you follow to make the most of your time?
Day: I’m a morning person, so I do most of my writing during the morning hours. During the rest of the day, I often think of stories and plots to write later. I keep my eyes and ears open for ideas. I have written two short stories, one a mystery and one a Christmas story for children. I’m hoping Echelon Press will publish them as E-Shorts. It’s true my children are grown, but my life is still so busy. I have four grandkids who love to visit us. We have ponies and horses, a lake and woods. I love to be outdoors in my garden. I mentor a child at the elementary school and volunteer at the local community center. I organize the town’s annual dog show and also the annual haunted house on Halloween. During the summer, I meet and read with children every Wednesday morning. My husband and I love to travel. This is also my life. Writing a book is a lot of work. I blog on two sites and tweet almost every day. I have five books in print (soon) and attend book festivals and conferences. I have lots to do! Aarrrgggghhhhh!

For more information about Marlis Day and her books, please visit her website or her Twitter page.