By Alex Miller

I remember the joy I used to get as a little kid perusing the aisles of books of my local library in Chicago. I was a nine-year-old who read H.G. Wells, Edgar Allen Poe, and J.R.R. Tolkien. The latter of whom—I must admit—I found extremely challenging. But I was nine; can you blame me? I used to envision those grandiose worlds, those macabre cellars, those dystopian futures. And then I’d think about being a famous author (partly sniggering to myself because I lived in the ghetto on Chicago’s South Side), and I’d pretend I could write such beautiful prose as to put an end to child abuse; exterminate poverty; or heap all the gangsters, crack-heads, and pimps into a dumpster large enough to hold them and jettison the horrid canister into Outer Space.

           Fast forward fourteen years. While perusing a library’s sci-fi aisle as I once did as a child, I made a bit of a less-than-startling, more well-that’s-the-way-of-the-world realization: all my favorite authors are white. I love sci-fi. I love thrillers. I love crime novels. There were black people in other genres, but I only really (secretly) enjoyed the novel Waiting to Exhale. So, where were the black authors of the fiction I love?

           I found myself asking this question over and over, night and day, until I came upon an answer. Maybe there just was no such thing as a black author of speculative fiction or horror. It hurt a bit. I guess it was one of those things that you are just so shocked to discover, you almost want to pretend you’d never learned it. I was reliving the death of Santa Claus. Clark Kent actually didn’t look a heck of a lot different than Superman. I’d never really get to marry Anne Hathaway. Obviously I was just being a simple-minded fool. After I became better educated, I became angry. Not angry at successful white writers for writing exceptional fiction. Oh no.

           I held, and still hold, my ire for the publishing industry. Making a name for yourself is tough, especially if you’re a black author trying to write something besides romance, erotica, memoir, or non-fiction anthology on the struggles of eighteenth century slaves. So you won’t think I’m pulling the race card and shoving it in your face, do me a favor and name as many black authors of sci-fi, paranormal, fantasy, crime novels, horror, speculative fiction, conspiracy thrillers, or mysteries as you can. I’ve Googled it, so I can name at least three now. But why should anyone have to do that? We know our Stephen Kings, our J.K. Rowlings, our Dan Browns, and our Isaac Asimovs; isn’t it time we started knowing our Samuel R. Delaneys, our Octavia Butlers, or our Tananarive Dues?

           I am not so naïve as to believe that Blacks are not interested in this type of fiction. Not anymore, at least. C’mon…get real. That’s like saying that white people don’t like Kool-Aid or watermelons. It’d be kind of racist to say that, actually.

           The truth, I believe, lies in the belief that blacks are mostly only interested in romance-driven dramas, biographies, and erotic fiction. “The Industry” would rather play it safe. People in publishing know that Terry McMillan sells. They know that Tyler Perry’s plays and films are a knockout. And they know that Zane and Antwon Fisher have huge followings amongst the black community. So, because of what they’ve proclaimed a rule, publishers have placed a sort of stigma on the black author who writes sci-fi or paranormal thrillers. Silly publishers: Ignorance is bliss.

            It is because of this skewed thinking that I’d rather not have a lable at all. I’d rather tap dance on glass ceilings than to be labeled a “Black Author,” as if being black has any bearing on how good my writing is. You see, this prejudice, this naiveté is truly what has made things hard for blacks. Really though, it’s okay. It just means that people who are different must try harder to succeed. As often as people try to draw lines and create barriers, that’s how often blacks will climb over those fences to become golf legends, tennis champs, and presidents. Oh, and famous thriller/sci-fi/paranormal/crime writers.

Well, it’s official: David Kuzminski of Preditors & Editors is a DEFAMER. And, his pocket is going to be, what has yet to be confirmed, $250,000 lighter. The jury has found Kuzminski guilty and has awarded Victor E. Cretella that tidy sum.

First, let me make one thing very clear: I don’t know the man. Never met him. Never talked to him. But, apparently, he thinks he knows a lot about me. Yep, I’m one of those people about whom he knows nothing, so he fills in the blanks.

Do I dislike the guy? I don’t personally know him. Do I dislike what he did? Yes, I do. He has caused havoc in our industry and he has hurt my friends and colleagues. But most of all I’m not overly fond of him for exposing me as a coward. I should have worked harder to bring together those who were damaged by Kuzminski and his buddies and, as a unit, we should have sued the crap out of the lot of them. Instead, we huddled together, hoping someone would be brave enough and have pockets deep enough to go after them.

Oh, I could make excuses, like my income was cut by nearly three quarters when their campaign against my companies began; that I was afraid they would do more damage once I sued them (ex: Bauer); and that lawsuits take so damn long and cost so much money. I did meet with an attorney regarding Kuzminski and others, and I was faced with the decision to proceed with a lawsuit and lay-off an employee or weather the storm. I kept my employee.

Fact remains, I wasn’t alone with my excuses. A lot of us were just plain scared to death. We all worked so hard to build our businesses only to have them crippled, and in some cases destroyed, because some frustrated, angry, wannabee writer with a website or some egomaniac thought they could control the industry.

I did manage to speak with one of the more predominant bloggers. I asked this person why they were saying and writing what they had to know was incorrect information for new writers to follow. The following is this delightful person’s answer: “The more misinformation out there, the better my chances are of getting published.” At least on one level this blogger was honest.

Many in our industry have been victimized by people like Mr. Kuzminski: Everyone from agents, to publishers, to writer’s groups, to trade sources, and last but not least, new writers themselves. Perhaps Publishing’s Reign of Terror is at the beginning of its end. Perhaps, those who have been quietly suffering will now have the courage to speak up because Mr. Cretella has hit a blogger where it hurts the most: The pocketbook. Perhaps there is some truth to that old saying, what goes around comes around.

Freedom of speech is apparently the battle cry of bloggers. Now that’s just precious, ain’t it? Having potty mouth and saying untrue things about someone isn’t freedom of speech, now is it David? Still, I’ll bet Mr. Kuzminski will appeal and ask his faithful followers for more money for his Legal Defense Fund. Or may he will do the right thing and acknowledge his mistake. After all, with freedom of speech comes responsibility. It’s rather simple, this concept of responsibility. First: You own what you say. Second: And I quote a lot of good parents: “If you have nothing nice to say, say nothing!”

That being said, here’s my something nice to David Kuzminski: “Have a nice day!”

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is an editorial. An opinion. And, it is owned by WritersNewWeekly.com that may or may not agree with its content. If you cut and paste it on your site, you are in copyright violation. You may link to it, but don’t steal.

The views expressed in this editorial are not necessarily the views of the WritersNewsWeekly staff, its advertisers, columnists or SterlingHouse Publisher. If you have any questions or would like to submit a rebuttal, please email editor@writersnewsweekly.com. Submitted editorials and queries will automatically become the property of WritersNewsWeekly and may be used in any future publications.

Could Be?

Graffiti gravitates to broken, chipped cement,
Where garbage, lids, empty cans, roll as they torment.
Pushing hard through mini cracks, searching for respect-
Some resourceful weeds acquire terminal neglect.

Their lineage is forever; their family tree- strong,
They spring up; take over, although maligned life-long.
Their enemies are legion, it’s “kill on command”!
Still many weeds flourish and beat the odds- unplanned.

Dutiful flowers- predictables- grown from seeds,
Do they envy this freedom- innate to all weeds?
Fertilized, pampered, confined, birthing buds galore,
Do you ever wonder-if-could be- less is more?

The views expressed in this editorial are not necessarily the views of the WritersNewsWeekly staff, its advertisers, columnists or SterlingHouse Publisher. If you have any questions or would like to submit a rebuttal, please email editor@writersnewsweekly.com. Submitted editorials and queries will automatically become the property of WritersNewsWeekly and may be used in any future publications.

By C. Sterling

What Just Happened starring Robert De Niro had the audience asking aloud, “What just happened?” Aside from the first scene where a sweet, innocent, loving dog who comes to his master’s aid (played by Sean Penn,) and gets his head blown off sending blood and guts splattering onto the screen in exchange for his loyalty, the rest of the move was just another Hollywood exercise in masturbation. But, before we move to that topic, back to the dog for a moment. As if that wasn’t enough to watch a dog get a bullet to the head, we had to suffer through watching the pooch’s body lay twitching on the ground beside Penn as he was being pumped full of lead. At least one good thing came out of the scene…Penn was put out of his misery.

But the audience wasn’t put out of theirs. As a reviewer for WritersNewWeekly.com I felt obligated to watch as Hollywood once again played with its self, knowing all along what the ending would be. What Just Happened is a story about, surprise…surprise, a Hollywood producer (De Niro) with two ex-wives, who is desperate to make his movie, aptly titled “Fiercely” a success. Why? He has to pay alimony. And this is supposed to endear him to the audience? Anyway, “Fiercely” (the movie within a movie) has a really bad ending (dog guts on the screen) and the director, (Michael Wincott,) who is a recovering drug addict with a foreign accent, refuses to re-cut the ending. Studio chief (Catherine Keener) threatens to pull the film from the Cannes Film Festival. She knows she's going to lose money on the film, but if the ending changes, she will lose less money. As she puts it, it’s better to lose 15 million dollars then 25 million. Now that I agree with. After being fed drugs by the producer, the director decides to do a kinder, gentler cut.

But, De Niro’s woos aren’t over. He has to deal with an over-indulgent, self-important actor named Bruce Willis with an overgrown beard, who mislabels his super-ego for creative expression and thinks his acting is what attracts audiences. Wait a minute, that was Bruce Willis—that wasn’t an actor. The beard, unbelievably, is his “creative” expression, but the big, bad studio wants him to shave it off. Bruce wants to keep it. Oh my, what a huge crisis. How can America sleep at night? There was a brief moment where I almost smiled when Bruce was acting, and I use the word lightly, out of his indignation over being told to shave the fur. But, being a consistent movie, it was one gigantic stereotype and quickly ceased to be funny. Masturbation. Stereotypical, and did I mention, predictable?

At the beginning of the film, after that horrendous doggie disaster, I told the women next to me that I didn’t want to ruin the ending for her but that the director would not make the cut and we would have to suffer the same gut-wrenching scene, only this time we would be at Cannes. She said, “They wouldn’t dare.” Oh, they dared all-right. And I wasn’t wrong about Bruce and the beard, either, when I told her how that problem would be solved. Would he or wouldn’t he shave? I know that had me on the edge of my seat. Yeah, right. Now think about this for a moment: Bruce being Bruce faced with the dilemma of to shave or not to shave, what do you think he would do?

A. Shave
B. Don’t Shave
C. All of the above.

For those of you that aren’t Bruce Willis fans this could be tough. However, because I don’t want you to waste your time or money to watch Hollywood’s failure to launch, I’ll give you the answer:
He shaved half his face. Wow! What a surprise. Didn’t see that one coming, did ya?

The Actors

De Niro is a great actor. Even when he’s the bad guy, you somehow find yourself rooting for him because he’s De Niro. But in this film, he’s not good or bad. He’s just tired. I understand why he choose this film. It could have been edgy, it could have been artistic, it could have made a statement but it did none of these things.

Sean Penn is a great actor. Even when he’s the bad guy, you somehow find yourself rooting for him because he’s Penn. But if you’re expecting a wonderful exchange of witty dialogue between these two great actors, you won’t find it in this movie. Penn is not much more than a cameo. Laying beside a dead dog for shock value would have been something that I thought was so beyond Penn, but sadly it wasn’t.

Bruce Willis: He didn’t act. He was just being himself

Catherine Keener: Good acting. Bad choice of movie.

Michael Wincott: Good acting. Bad choice of movie.

Dog: I love Dog. Even when he’s the bad guy, you somehow find yourself rooting for him because he’s Dog. Dog wins the best actor award. That is unless they really shot him. Nah, we have laws against those kinds of things. But again, this is Hollywood and they just played with their privates on the big screen. Someone, please…tell me the dog is still alive. Please.

The rest of the cast: They tried. It’s just hard to forgive the bad choice they made. Discernment—I wonder if any of them know the meaning of that word.

Barry Levinson: I used to love Levinson, but after this film, not so much anymore. He simply doesn’t have what it takes to be a true artist…and only a true artist would be able to kill our canine friend, smear our faces in its blood and get away with in. The thing is this: A true artist would not be so self-absorbed, conceited and removed from his art to think that he could pull off the dead dog thing. Yes, true art often offends, confronts and confuses. Levinson tried to lessen the assault by using stupid, contrite dialogue and overdone scenes (Penn rolling, and rolling and rolling down the hill) but the fact remains, HE KILLED THE DOG! One good thing, though, this movie will lose money and Levinson will be standing near the outside of the big P in producer.

So to answer the question: What just happened? Hollywood committed the biggest sin it could commit. No, not masturbating in public. Hollywood is so in love with itself and so lost in its own self-importance that it forgot about you and me, the moviegoer. Unless you enjoy watching the family pet get murdered or enjoy watching the big hand of Hollywood going up and down on itself, stay home. Rent a movie. Watch Hitchcock. Now that was someone who knew how to choose a script and make a great film. De Niro may wish to stick with acting.

I give this movie two thumbs down and two middle fingers up.

The views expressed in this editorial are not necessarily the views of the WritersNewsWeekly staff, its advertisers, columnists or SterlingHouse Publisher. If you have any questions or would like to submit a rebuttal, please email editor@writersnewsweekly.com. Submitted editorials and queries will automatically become the property of WritersNewsWeekly and may be used in any future publications.

By Eddie Correia

During the campaign season, we are reminded daily of the power of political speech to persuade, to inspire and to mislead. It is not clear if writers are more immune to manipulation by political language than others, but at least we should be more sensitive to its uses and abuses. Let’s review some of the years’ highlights and examples of the great range in the quality of political discourse.

On rare occasions, political language is especially powerful and intellectually provocative. Senator Obama’s speech on race earlier this year is arguably an example. One can also think of historical examples that reflect the best use of political language. In honor of the current economic crisis, consider FDR’s famous line about the risk of financial panic in his inaugural address in 1933: “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” What makes that statement so memorable? Like poetry, the sentence is structured to be read aloud – four introductory beats, followed by the climactic two beat conclusion, coupled with the double use of the word “fear.” The result is a sentence that is comforting and pleasant to hear at the same time. But the real magic is in the content. Substantively, it is the rough equivalent of: “Just don’t panic.” Rhetorically, however, it creates the image of fear as separate from ourselves, as if we are at one end of the room and fear is at the other. All we have to do is stand up to it, and we can defeat it.

The statement has held up well over the years, but alas, its descendants have not. During the Democratic primary campaign, Senator Clinton attacked Senator Obama for being all words and no substance. Obama countered by quoting FDR’s famous line and asking: “Are these just words?” Clinton countered by accusing Obama of plagiarism for using the “Just words?” phrase because the Governor of Massachusetts had already used it. To follow the spiral down further, one of President Bush’s responses to the current financial panic was: "If money isn't loosened up, this sucker could go down.” Among other flaws in this statement, the antecedent of “this sucker” is ambiguous. Is it the banking industry, the American economy or our entire way of life?

A unique example of the abuse of political language is a statement that is the precise opposite of the facts. This technique turns language on its head so dramatically that the listener may miss the distortion entirely, not unlike a person who hears a siren and cannot tell whether the ambulance is directly behind him or in front of him. This brings us to this week’s nomination: Senator McCain’s announcement that he is suspending his campaign to come to Washington in order to “take politics out” of the enactment of bailout legislation. Everyone in Washington, indeed everyone with a high school education, knows that that he really intends to inject politics into the debate. It is a tribute to the state of political discourse in our country that no one is shocked.

Edward Correia, a Washington D.C. lawyer and Adjunct Professor of Law at American University's Washington College of Law, is the author of The Uncertain Believer: Reconciling God and Science. As a Special Counsel to President Bill Clinton, Correia provided advice regarding constitutionally protected religious freedoms and played a major role in the development and passage of the Religious Liberties Protection Act in 2000. He was the first Distinguished Professor of Urban Law and Policy at Northeastern University Law School.

You can read more about his book and philosophy at his website, http://uncertainbeliever.com.

The views expressed in this editorial are not necessarily the views of the WritersNewsWeekly staff, its advertisers, columnists or SterlingHouse Publisher. If you have any questions or would like to submit a rebuttal, please email editor@writersnewsweekly.com. Submitted editorials and queries will automatically become the property of WritersNewsWeekly and may be used in any future publications.

Those With Writing Experience Need Not Apply

By C. Sterling

You too can be a successful novelist in just THREE weeks. It’s easy. Just sign up for our complete course study. It’s only $99.99! Hurry…classes fill up quickly. All you need is a computer and a working knowledge of the English language. Enroll now and receive a FREE copy of Vomit Writing: The Safe, Quick Way to Purge Your Story.

For more information call 555-555-5555. Have your credit cards ready.

It may sound like a fictional place but the Vomiting School of Writing does exist. It has to. Just look around at the multitude of “authors” that have graduated from the place. They’re everywhere. Agents and publishers know what I’m talking about. They see the Vomit graduate’s work every day. The following is a reenactment of true events. The names have been changed to protect the writer from further embarrassment.

It was a usual day at the office. Stacks of manuscripts were piled on Ted’s desk waiting in silence for the verdict: Would they be tossed in the trash? Expressed mailed back to their creator? Or live on as a book? He was the decider. The person who, on a bad hair day, could simply with a stroke of a pen kill a story and end a dream. But today was a good day. No wild hairs. He picked up a manuscript, sat back in his chair and began to read when Larry entered the room.

“You gotta take this guy’s call,” Larry said, handing the receiver to him.
“Who is it?” Ted asked, reluctant to take the call.
“A writer.”
“One of ours?”
“Nope. But trust me, this one will make your day.” Larry took Ted’s hand and firmly placed the receiver in it. “Trust me. You don’t want to miss this call.”
Ted’s curiosity was peaked. Maybe it was a famous author. Maybe…just maybe…it was James Patterson.
“Hello, this is Ted Andersen,” he introduced himself in his best “I am the publisher” voice. “How can I help you?”
“Ted, Ronnie Greer, here. I was just telling Larry, er, somebody, that you have a manuscript of mine. I Fed Ex’ed it to you yesterday. It should be on your desk. Anyway,” he continued without taking a breath. “ I just want to you know that before you make any decision I won’t accept anything less than a $5,000,000 advance and a promotional budget of $2,500,000. Got that, Ted? I won’t accept anything less.”
Ted glanced up at Larry who was actually giggling like some high school girl sharing secrets about a new boyfriend. “It gets better,” Larry whispered. “Honest.”
“Ronnie, have you been published before?” Ted inquired, uncertain whether or not he was falling victim to a colleague’s practical joke.
“Nope, can’t say I have Ted.”
“Then why do you think you deserve such a high advance and promotional budget?” Ted was sincerely interested in Ronnie’s response.
“Well Ted, because the novel is unique. I guarantee that you have never read anything like it. Everyone says so. Even my mom, who reads a lot of books, just loves it. My wife who doesn’t like much of anything I do encouraged me to send it publishers. And my instructor wants to use it in his class as an example.”
“As of example of what?” Ted inquired, shaking his head.
“Not quite sure yet, Ted. I’m guessin’ that I’m his best student.”
“Why not get yourself an agent? I’m sure your instructor suggested that to you.”
“Don’t need an agent when your work speaks for itself. It says so right here in my handbook.”
“I guess there’s some truth in that.” Ted rubbed his forehead with fingers.
“And I read that writers should be paid, Ted. Paid. Writers shouldn’t pay. And all those agents want is your money. Most are scams.”
“You don’t say?” Ted cast a disapproving look in Larry’s direction.
“Ted?”
“Yes, Ronnie?”
“I think there’s one more thing you should know. I worked real hard on this book. I deserve to get paid for my creativeness and my time.”
“How long did it take for you to write your novel?” Ted asked, innocently.
“Three weeks,” Ronnie answered. “Three long weeks.”
By now Larry was on the floor, rolling with laughter. He stopped for a moment and whispered to Ted, “Give the guy the five million.”
“Ronnie?”
“Yes, Ted.”
“I have some bad news for you. We were going to offer you a two million dollar advance and a half million advertising budget. But since we are so far apart in our thinking, I’m going to have Larry Fed Ex your manuscript back to you today. Hey, but thanks for thinking of us.”
Before Ronnie had the chance to say any more, Ted hung up the phone and joined Larry on the floor, where to this very day, they are still laughing.

Before returning the manuscript to the author, both Ted and Larry took turns reading from Ronnie’s work entitled The Old Man and the Ocean. They shared it with the entire editorial staff. Production even did a mock cover complete with visible watermarks from tears…tears of laughter and intense sadness.

The views expressed in this editorial are not necessarily the views of the WritersNewsWeekly staff, its advertisers, columnists or SterlingHouse Publisher. If you have any questions or would like to submit a rebuttal, please email editor@writersnewsweekly.com. Submitted editorials and queries will automatically become the property of WritersNewsWeekly and may be used in any future publications.

By C. Sterling

I have read enough manuscripts over the past 25 years to make the following statement: Male fiction writers need to get real. Okay, fiction isn’t really real, but it still has to sound real. The storyline has to be plausible, the characters believable and the dialogue natural. Every publisher and editor will agree that a writer’s ability to make fiction seem real is what good fiction is all about. Somehow, this message hasn’t gotten to male fiction writers, especially the new ones. Here’s an example of what I mean:

“As Joe waited for the elevator door to open he ran his fingers through his gray hair. It was thinning; there was no doubt about it. It was true, Joe admitted to himself. He was losing his hair. At least he was doing better than his father, who was completely bald by the age of fifty-five. He was ready to let go of his thoughts about hair, age and dad when the door opened and he came face to face with himself in the elevator’s full length mirror. Was that really him? When did he get that belly? And those wrinkles on his face? He entered the elevator and immediately heard a woman calling to hold the door.

Joe held the door open and before him stood the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was tall, mostly legs. Her flowing blond hair lightly touched her bare shoulders. The deep neckline of her nearly see-through white blouse revealed her large, round breasts. Her short black skirt hugged her narrow hips. “Just in time,” he said, smiling.

She returned his smile. Her lips where red, full and inviting. “I’m Monique,” she said with a hit of a French accent. “And you are my savior tonight.” He stared into her deep blue eyes; a place where he was certain he could get lost.

She returned his gaze. Their hands meet as they both reached for the elevator button.”

Blah…blah…blah. Anyway, later that night Joe and Monique bump into each other at the hotel bar. Joe learns she is twenty-four, has a PH.D from Harvard and is in town for a few weeks to work with NASA scientists to solve a problem that might just save the world from certain destruction. Oh, Joe works with NASA, too. He’s the janitor who has stumbled upon a piece of top-secret information that may just help Monique save the world. Anyway, as you probably have guessed by now, Joe and Monique have sex. Excuse me, not just sex; the best sex ever. Crazy, wild, uninhibited sex with a capital “S.” So what if he is married to a fifty-four year old small breasted women who works as a secretary and loves him dearly. The world in grave danger, humans may become extinct and a twenty-four year old blond bombshell with large boobies and a PH.D. wants his fat, aging, bald-headed body. A woman would never write that shit, except of course to illustrate a point.

What point? The male fantasy point. Enough already. No matter how you try to spin it, Monica is never, in a million years, going to have sex with Joe. Just isn’t going to happen. So fellas, downsize the breasts, shorten the legs, make the lips less red and a bit thinner, drop the accent, change Monique to Mary and up the age to forty-two. Oh, and kill the wife. The rest of the story sounds pretty good.

Did I mention that Monique has a friend? Yeah, she’s an old college roommate named Suzanne. NASA, much to Monique’s surprise, asked her to join the team. She’s attracted to Joe, too. And guess what? Suzanne’s breasts are even bigger than Monique’s.

The views expressed in this editorial are not necessarily the views of the WritersNewsWeekly staff, its advertisers, columnists or SterlingHouse Publisher. If you have any questions or would like to submit a rebuttal, please email editor@writersnewsweekly.com. Submitted editorials and queries will automatically become the property of WritersNewsWeekly and may be used in any future publications.