NOVEMBER 2010 WINNER--DEREK J. CANYON

Congratulations to Derek J. Canyon for winning November's contest.  When the poll closed last night Derek was tied with Robb Grinderstaff for the lead, so I extended the contest another 15 hours to determine the winner.  It was a tough battle, though. Robb is a terrific writer and it's obvious he's got the talent to compete on any level of competition.  Did I just sound like a football analyst?  Sorry. Congrats to Robb and Derek for the fun ride.

NOVEMBER 2010 FINALISTS

Below are the four finalists for November's contest.  All four were diverse, yet powerful in their imagery.  I'll be switching it up next month by posting scenes from Indie or lesser-known authors who have books available to purchase.
Now take your time to read these strong scenes and vote for your favorite on the poll to the right.  The winner will receive a $25.00 Amazon Gift Card and jealous glares from their fellow writers.

A- Robb Grindstaff

I took the baby from Daniel. She was red and smelled like smoke, but she was crying full throttle so she could breathe okay. At the end of the long gravel driveway, boys and girls from age five to twelve cried and huddled together. We had to go to them.


Flames danced out all the windows on the top floor. The loft was engulfed. The roof over the master bedroom end of the house buckled and the fire poked skyward. I reached for Daniel’s hand.

“I tried,” Daniel sobbed. “I couldn’t get to them. I got the baby, but Ma and Pa wouldn’t wake up and I had to get out. I tried to go back but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

I pulled him with me to the end of the drive. We had to do a head count. Including Daniel, the baby and me, thirteen of us waited for the fire trucks and the police and the neighbors.

Thirteen of us waited for official word that our foster parents didn’t make it out. Thirteen of us waited for Child Protective Services to take us somewhere else.

B- Shannon Lee

She reached under the table and brought out a rusted pipe. The movement was so fast, Janet plunged the pipe into the man’s chest. She shattered ribs and tore through his lung. Never had I heard such a pitch escape the lips of a mortal man. And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to turn away. Janet withdrew the pipe and blew through the clean end of it, forcing out the organ and tissue that was lodged. She was quick to place it back into the mortal’s chest. The blood began to flow out as Janet led the mortal to the table. Anchored into it’s sides was a hallowed out meat grinder, a forceful shove brought the metal pipe into the grinder’s entrance. I was ill to see blood and chunks of flesh gush, until an even flow of blood began. Mugs were placed, under the grinder to catch the drippings.


His hands were the first to lose strength, as they turned pale, his face slowly drained of color as his pleading eyes begged me to help him. I nearly did, until he stopped breathing. His corpse remained on the table as drinks were placed. Janet took hold of hers and drank. “Sorry about the pulp”

C- Derek J. Canyon

Thring bends down and snarls at me. I see his rotten teeth, sticking out

like tombstones in his mouth. Apparently, the genetic engineers who
designed him cut some corners on dental. He licks his lips.

"I'm talkin' to you, pissbag."

It's time to put this guy in his place. I'm the resident psycho and
ice-cold killer in this bin, and I don't want anyone else getting their
noses into my routine.

"You're blocking my sun, boy," I say softly.

Despite his technological ancestry, the racial slight has the desired
effect. His face contorts in anger as he grabs my shirt and lifts me with
ease to a standing position, the muscles on his arms rippling in barely
controlled tension.

"I'm gonna kill you!" This guy's real original. His breath is stale and
musty, like a puff of air escaping from a just-opened coffin.

I look around. The other cons watch closely, waiting to see what will
happen. Well, I won't keep them in suspense. As the psycho, there is only
one thing for me to do.

D- Joyce Yarrow
The walls, covered with graffiti, scream in undecipherable defiance. The window gate is open, and I climb onto the fire escape, gulping in fresh air, clutching the railing. Below me, treetops in the back yard sway in the slight breeze, oblivious to the violence perpetrated above them. On the platform, a canvas beach chair and a towel hint at better days. A glint of metal in the corner catches my eye. Pulling a pencil from my purse, I use it to retrieve the chain, which is attached to a miniature replica of the Empire State Building and a small key. I insert the key into the padlock on the outside of the window gate and it turns with a smooth click. I know I should leave this evidence where it is, but on impulse, I place the key chain in my pocket. How easily years of training can go down the drain.


I force myself to re-enter the bedroom, knowing I have only this one chance to investigate before the police secure the scene. I'm calmer than I'd expect, but all my experiences tracking deadbeat dads and scam artists haven't prepared me for the ugliness of violent death. This is my first murder victim, my first corpse.





 

THE MAFIA AND ME--A TRUE STORY

I was recently interviewed for David Wisehart's blog, Kindle Author, and he questioned me about the research I'd done for my novel, "A Touch of Deceit."  In the book a Sicilian FBI agent recruits his Mafia cousin to help him track a terrorist.  Well of course I mentioned how I interviewed FBI agents and local law enforcement to get a good idea of how the bureau worked.  But for the Mafia part I had to think--what research had I really done?

Then it occurred to me.  I'm Sicilian.  My father was Sicilian.  He also owned a candy store in Brooklyn where the Mafia would run numbers.  It was more like a Luncheonette with a counter for soda and sandwiches.  When I was sixteen I began working weekends by myself.  Well, of course, I was young, so my dad's Sicilian friends offered to keep an eye on me while I was working alone.  Guys with names like Max and Tony would stop in frequently during the shift and make small talk.  We became very friendly.  We talked baseball, their kids, everything.  They would buy coffee and overtip me.  Eventually we set up a signal with the bar across the street where the Mafia guys would hang out.  If I turned off the neon ice cream sign in the window it meant someone suspicious was in the store.

Late one night just before closing a kid around twenty-one came in, sat at the counter and ordered a Cherry Cola.  He sat there sipping it like it was hot tea.  Then he looked around and asked me questions like ‘where’s my help’ and ‘how much money does a place like this keep in the register?’ So I clicked off the ice cream sign and within two minutes five Sicilians came in and surrounded the kid. They never touched him, but he practically ran out the door and I never saw him again. These guys were very loyal people and treated me like royalty.

I told that story in my interview with David Wisehart and when I finished, I asked, "Does that count as research?"  Something tells me I learned more from my youth with the Mafia then I ever did over the phone with an FBI agent.

A WRITER'S MIND IS ON-CALL 24/7

There are times when a writer, like me, will have those far away eyes. You know what I mean, one minute you’re having a conversation with a writer, then they seem to check out for a few minutes. Where do they go? I’ll tell you. They’re tying up that latest plot twist. They’re trying to remember what you call that ramp you walk down to enter a plane. They’re figuring out how their protaganist is going to get out of the latest jam they put him in. It’s always in the back of a writer’s mind. It’s all part of the process. You could spend a lifetime trying to explain it. If you’re a close friend or family member this will happen more frequently. Why? Because they feel more comfortable doing it with you than an acquaintance which could cause some uncomfortable moments.

Be understanding when this happens. The writer can’t help it, their brain is wired to manufacture scenes in their mind before it reaches their keyboard and if they wait until they're sitting in front of the computer to get it done, it’ll take a decade to finish a chapter. So they wander. They take that excess time we have each day to unwind and turn it into a productive business meeting. Consider it a conference call for the imagination.

So the next time you’re driving in a car with a writer and notice them staring out the window. Don’t be surprised when you ask them what they’re doing and they turn to you and say, “I’m working.”

OCTOBER 2010 WINNER--NICOLE SCHELLER

Congratulation to Nicole Scheller for winning October's contest.  Her scene was scene A in the post below this.  The readers voted her the best scene and she's a deserving winner.  Even though she had to cut this scene down to make it fit into the parameters of the contest, the writing was powerful and dare I say---Strong.

OCTOBER 2010 FINALISTS

Below are the three finalists for October's contest.  A real diverse group of genres.  Use the poll on the right to vote for your favorite scene.  The winner will receive a $25.00 Amazon Gift Card, plus at least one literary agent will read the winning submission.  Good luck and vote.


A- Nicole Scheller

As if she feels your stare, she lifts her head. In the dimmed light you can't make out the title, but the fact that she sits here alone on a Friday night, holding a book, makes her attractive enough.

She smiles at you. Her far too perfect lips reveal a set of white teeth. You know it's rude, but you can't hold her gaze. Ashamed, you look away, into your glass. When you take a sip, you sense her eyes scanning each inch of your body.

Another sip. It feels warm, comfortably warm. Slow, but confident footsteps on the wooden floor. You listen carefully, your grip tightens. Five, six, seven, eight. Then, they stop. The scent of flowery, expensive perfume penetrates your nostrils.

'You are waiting for someone?' she asks. Her voice surprises. It is nothing like you thought it would be. Much deeper – not displeasing, though. A faint accent gives away she is not a native. It sounds inviting. You shake your head in response to her question.

'Would you mind me sitting here?' Without waiting for an answer she lays down her book and takes a seat. Its author is no-one foreign to you.

B- Wayne C. Rogers

I’m going to die, he thought.
Then, everything changed as Freeman heard the most wonderful sound in his entire life.
It was Betty’s loud, ferocious bark.

She’d somehow managed to get her leash untied from the post and had come racing to his rescue.
God, he loved that dog.

The stranger in the overcoat heard her bark, too, but reacted too late as the dog leaped into the air, knocking it off her master’s back with the sheer force of her weight.

Freeman heard a shrill cry.

The dog was tearing into the creature, going for any part of the body she could sink her teeth into.

Pushing himself up to a sitting position, Freeman lifted the .45 with his good hand and took aim. That was when he saw the creature grip Betty’s snarling mouth with both of its hands. In an unbelievable feat of strength, the stranger tore the lower jaw from the dog’s mouth and then bit into her throat, tearing at the flesh like a starving animal, shaking its head wildly from side to side.

Blood flew everywhere.

“No!” Freeman shouted.

C- Kirsty Logan

Painted and smiling, I balance on my trapeze. Luka is poised ten
metres away, his muscles shining under the lights. The ringmaster, his
moustache oiled to needle-sharp points, announces glory and wonder. I
pull sawdusty air into my lungs and start to swing. As I build up my
momentum, I smile down at the crowd stacked up in the tent: blinded by
the lights, all I see is a mass of teeth and eyes and restless limbs.
From the corner of my eye I see Luka, hanging from his knees, patting
his hands together so the talc can absorb the sweat of his palms. I
wait for the twitch of his thumbs that lets me know he’s ready.
I curl my toes around the painted bar, spread my arms like wings, and let go.
For two seconds I’m weightless, as helpless as a newborn with its cord cut.
Then Luka’s hands are on my wrists, calloused and hot, swinging me
round. Below me the crowd gasps, claps, cheers. I look at the world
below us: the restless crowd, the glare of lights, the motes of
sawdust in the air.

Then I let go.

5 QUESTIONS FOR NY TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR DAVID MORRELL

There are only a handful of fictional characters which are universally known by a single name--Frankentstein, Tarzan and of course Rambo.  When David Morrell created the Rambo character in his novel, "First Blood," back in 1972 he was an English Professor at the University of Iowa.  Now he is considered the originator of the modern action thriller and one of the most prolific authors of the past thirty years. He has currently agreed to publish 9 of his backlisted novels exclusively on Amazon as a Kindle E-book, as well as a new novel, "The Naked Edge."  He was very gracious with his time and very thoughtful with his answers.  Thank you David.

1-     What runs through your mind when you're introduced as the man who created Rambo?

In my writing book, THE SUCCESSFUL NOVELIST, I mention that one of the hardest tasks for an author is to have a subject matter or an approach or a character recognizable to readers.  At a party or a similar event, when people learn that someone is an author, almost the first thing they say is (note the negative), “I don’t suppose you’ve written anything that I’ve read.”   When they say this, they almost always shake their heads from side to side.  In my case, even if they haven’t read FIRST BLOOD or seen the film based on it, they’ve heard of the character.  There are only about 5 action characters that are recognized pretty much anywhere around the world—Sherlock Holmes, Tarzan, James Bond, Rambo, and Harry Potter.  It’s a strange feeling to have created a character who is in that group.  At the same time, whenever Rambo is mentioned in the media or wherever (which is almost every day), it always takes me a moment to remember that I’m the creator of the character—he became so much a part of world culture that he’s like a son who grew up and out of the control of his father.  In fact, I sometimes autograph books as Rambo’s father.

2-     Rambo was a violent, guilt-ridden character--were you happy with the way Sylvester Stallone handled the complexities of your character on the big screen?

The film FIRST BLOOD went through 5 studios and 26 scripts before Carolco finally produced it with Sylvester Stallone in 1982.  Some of the reasons are due to miscasting.  While it sounds like a great idea to have Steve McQueen as Rambo, the director who was assigned to that possible production, Sydney Pollack, told me that it took them 3 months of preparation before they realized the fatal flaw—that Steve McQueen was in his mid 40s.  In 1975, there weren’t any 45-year-old Vietnam veterans. Other possible productions emphasized the violence of my novel as well as Rambo’s anger, and that caused producers to be hesitant—they wanted to soften the character. Finally the Carolco script by William Sackheim, Michael Kozoll, and Sylvester inserted the scene at the beginning where Rambo speaks to the woman whose son was in Rambo’s Vietnam unit and who died from Agent Orange. The intent was to make Rambo a victim, which is a different interpretation of the character but an effective one for film purposes.  Many years later, when Sylvester was preparing the fourth Rambo film, he phoned me and said that he didn’t think any of the previous films truly captured the character as I wrote him and that the fourth film would have more of the angry tone of the original novel. As for Sylvester as Rambo, Richard Crenna told me that in his long career, only two actors really knew what to do in front of a camera, with regard to their eyes and their use of props—they were Steve McQueen and Sylvester Stallone.

3- What made you decide to publish The Naked Edge and 9 other backlisted novels as Kindle books?

Amazon came to my agent, Jane Dystel, and asked if I’d be interested in offering a lot of my backlist in exclusive Kindle e-book editions. As it happens, I’d been thinking a lot about e-books and the current broken state of publishing.  Printed books currently have a shelf life of 6 weeks. The hardback is given 18 months in a warehouse before the copies are remaindered. The paperback lasts a little longer.  But an e-book doesn’t go out of print, and in the Amazon Kindle model, it can be available within a minute almost anywhere in the world.  Australia, Japan, Germany, France, on and on.  It’s mind spinning to think of how quick and easy it is for a reader to have access to an e-book—and I repeat, the access is global, not dependent on creaky warehouse procedures or smoke-spewing delivery trucks. I’m not turning my back on printed books. Not at all. I collect books by certain authors and want signed copies of each one.  I love to give books as gifts. I prize the books that are on my shelves. But as an author, I need to realize that it is sometimes difficult for readers to buy physical books.  To give one example, I once had a novel for which a warehouse screw-up caused the books to arrive in stores 3 weeks after the publication date, long after my publicity tour and the expense of the print ads and 40 radio interviews that each averaged 20 minutes in length. Then almost immediately the books were shipped back to the warehouse. So much waste. Many other authors have similar stories. To draw attention to the e-books of my backlist, I decided to go all the way with the experiment and add a brand-new, never-before-published novel, THE NAKED EDGE. No established author ever did that before. Then I decided to experiment with the e-book format and add 18 color photographs of fine-art knives that are mentioned in THE NAKED EDGE. These include the most expensive knife in the world, Buster Warenski’s solid-gold replica of King Tut’s dagger. In a printed book, the 18 color photographs would have pushed the price to $50.  But in an e-book, that sort of extra material can be added easily and with no extra cost.  Similarly, my novel THE TOTEM exists in two drastically different versions. For the e-book, we put both versions together. A printed volume that contained both versions would have been huge and costly.  But not the e-book.

4- Amidst all the great reviews on Amazon for The Naked Edge, I noticed one disparaging remark from someone in the print industry who clearly never read the book but used this platform to remark how the digital world is destroying jobs for hard-working individuals.  Have you received any flack from people within the industry about your decision--or was this simply a matter of an individual Horse and Buggy driver shaking his fist at a Model T?

Some readers said they were old-fashioned and would always stick with printed books.  We’ll see.  Current predictions are that e-books will amount to 50% of book sales within the next five years.  I personally think it’ll be closer to 60% for e-books and that it’ll happen sooner.  When was the last time your readers bought a music CD as opposed to downloading something?  On my FACEBOOK page, I did a survey, and the vast majority hadn’t bought a CD in years. Tower Records went out of business.  Best Buy and Sam’s Club and the chain sores reduced the space they devote to CDs.  The music business is the model I think publishing will follow. I’m not saying this is good or bad. I’m saying it’s reality. As for the one-star review on Amazon, it came from someone who readily admitted that he hadn’t read the book.  He said he was in the print industry and that the e-book trend would put him out of a job and that it was un-American. I understood his frustration. In my many years, I’ve never seen cultural changes happening this fast. But I wish he hadn’t condemned a book that he’d never read.  That didn’t seem right to me.

5- Your best guess--what does the publishing industry look like in ten years?

Barnes & Noble told mall developers that it was going to reduce the size and number of its physical stores.  The model they envision is a kiosk store that emphasizes their Nook e-reader.  As the chains downsize, I think we’ll also see more independent bookstores close (some of this is due to atrophy as owners age and retire).  After that, I believe that the surviving independent bookstores will do well—because they can offer signed copies of printed books to a dedicated clientele.  Audio books will be almost entirely in a download form. E-books will dominate the general market.  In that form, distribution will be global even more than it is now.  I recently heard from a U.S. soldier in the Persian Gulf.  He has a Kindle, on which he can store a thousand books—and he can get those books the day they are published, even those he’s on a remote military base.  That’s what he did with THE NAKED DGE.  Wow.

WHY E-READERS MIGHT JUST SAVE THE WORLD

Books have been around in virtually the same form for thousands of years. It’s old school. Very old school. So when someone from the younger generation mentions something about reading a book, believe it or not, it’s met with scrutiny more than envy. Bottom line–it’s not cool to read books. I’ll never forget a few years back my then 14-year-old daughter was setting up a profile for some social webpage and when the profile’s question was “Which books have you read recently?” My daughter’s comment was, “Very funny.” Go ahead and frown, I did. I’m a writer. She was too embarrased to even admit she might have read a book because it’s uncool. Book-readers are nerds, right?


Enter the Kindle and iPad. The epitomy of cool. I think the iPad even comes with a pair of shades. Because these new digital devices are so cool the kids are gobbling them up. Now they can discuss what they’ve read recently because it wasn’t done on an archaic, dusty piece of brown paper, but their new digital thing which they can hear music on or surf the web. But what they’re really doing with a lot of these devices is reading. Even if it’s a webpage or a text–it’s still reading. And we all know what reading texts leads to–reading books. Okay I made that up, sort of like smoking pot leads to heroin addiction. But maybe, just maybe, if owning an E-reader is such a cool thing, possibly it may just lead to reading. And we all know reading leads to eternal happiness–or an addiction to morphine, I forget how that works.

SEPTEMBER 2010 WINNER--ROSS CAVINS

Congratulations to September's winner Ross Cavins.  Out of 189 votes he received 120.  I felt he had tough competition and yet still received over 60 % of the vote.  Robb and Suzanne have nothing to be ashamed of, their scenes were terrific.  You just never know which genre will capture the interest of the readers that month.  Thanks for another successful contest.  Good luck in October.

I'm also including a link to Ross's book page for those interested in seeing more of his work.

http://www.facebook.com/l/7594dMN9jfefDZ6Z0IbSbV71FCg;money.rosscavins.com

SEPTEMBER 2010 FINALISTS

Here are the finalists for September's Strong Scene Contest.  Please vote to the right for your favorite Scene.  The winner will receive a $25.00 Amazon Gift Card.  Congrats to all the finalists.

A- Ross Cavins

Bobby counted off a hundred, then four more hundred, and made a show out of sliding the chips into the pot. One of two things would happen now. Either it would spook Blue or embolden the man to dig in.


The two players stared at each other, reading faces, trying to pick up the slightest hint what was going on in each of their minds.

"Well?" Bobby said, looking Blue hard in the eyes. He kept his face blank, raising his left eyebrow a hair, daring Blue to do something, playing to the man's ego. "Shit or get off the pot." It was his best poker joke.

Blue counted out four hundred and pushed it in the middle, then shoved in another four hundred right behind it, staring at Bobby the whole time. "Four more to you," Blue said.

Bobby pursed his lips together, narrowed his eyes, and bent the edge of his cards up so he could see them again, pretending he was considering what to do next. It was all part of the game. He slid a thousand in chips out, saying, "I'll raise."

Blue's mustache twitched and he gave Bobby the hardest look of the night. It was coming. Bobby could sense it; he could feel it on his head, like peppermint ants were having a family picnic up there, all of them scurrying around to make sure everybody got some food.

"What you got over there?" Blue said.

"It'll cost you to see."

B- Robb Grindstaff 

Getting through security took longer than Glenda expected. Sure, lots of former blonde beauty queens pushing two infants were terrorists. The carry-on, the briefcase, and diaper bag. Double-wide stroller which security scanned and patted down for hidden compartments. The screening by the TSA lady behind the curtain.


“What’s this?” TSA lady lifted a small, hand-held device with a suction cup on one end.

“It’s my breast pump.”

TSA lady crinkled her nose and put it back.
“These liquids are more than three ounces.”

“They’re milk for the babies. The sign says I can bring more than three ounces of milk for the babies.”

“Ma’am, the sign also says the milk has to be in the original containers.”

The stress of the past two days, getting the babies and her packed for an overseas flight, traffic snarls on the way to the airport, and now this. The stupidest woman on the planet delaying her further while her flight called for boarding.

Glenda began unbuttoning her blouse.

“What’re you doing, ma’am?”

“Showing you the original containers.” With a flourish, Glenda ripped the blouse open, letting the last two buttons fly, and dropped the flaps in the front of the nursing bra.

C- Suzanne Senden

Clara stood in the desolate field as the chilly December wind whipped about her. The fields were barren now. Broken corn stalks, once so full of potential lay scattered the wind tossing them about as it played in the ruins of the harvest.


She felt that the land was a metaphor for her life.

She sighed, her frosty breath enveloping her for a moment before it faded.

A light snow began to fall.

She loved the smell of snow, a cold dryness that tickled her nose. Usually the frigid fragrances of winter wafted on the wind long before the snow began to fall. She looked up as the flakes fell from a flat, leaden sky. She had heard someone call it Winter’s Communion if you put your tongue out to catch the flakes.

She could hear the chunky flakes as they plashed into the earth, landed on her shoulders and nestled into the hair.

Snow began to accumulate in the rutted furrows, transforming the land covering the broken stalks, making them over into something fairy tale wondrous. Soon the bleak land would be covered in a beautiful mantle of white, transforming everything.

If only her life could transform as easily.

Elmore Leonard's "Freaky Deaky"-- A Strong Scene

Below is the last part of Chapter 1 from Elmore Leonard's
"Freaky Deaky." To me this is a strong scene because
of the finish.  Leonard delivers the ultimate ending
to this scene.
Two bomb experts, Jerry and Chris get called
to a gangster's house to remove a bomb from
under a chair cushion which the gangster is sitting on.
If the gangster tries to get up, the bomb explodes. See how
Leonard crafts this scene so naturally:


"I couldn't get in the Jacuze quick enough, huh?"

"I doubt it."

"His feet might stay on the floor," Jerry said,
"remain in the house."

Chris agreed, nodding. "Yeah, but his ass'd be
sailing over Ohio."

Jerry moved from behind the chair to the French
doors. "We better talk about it some more."

Booker's head turned to follow Chris. "Where
you going? Hey, motherfucker, I'm talking to you!"

Chris stepped out and closed the door. He moved
with Jerry to the far edge of the slate patio before
looking back at the French doors in the afternoon
sunlight. They could hear Booker in there, faintly.

They crossed the yard, Jerry offering Chris a cigarette.

He took one and Jerry gave him a light once
they reached the driveway and were standing by
the three-car garage, alone in the backyard. Jerry
looked up at the elm trees. He said, "Well, they're
finally starting to bud. I thought winter was gonna
run through May."

Chris said, "That's my favorite kind of house.

Sort of an English Tudor, before Booker got hold
of it."

Jerry said, "Why don't you and Phyllis buy
one?"

"She likes apartments. Goes with her career image."

"She must be jumping up and down, finally got
her way."

Chris didn't say anything.

"I'm talking about your leaving the squad."

"I know what you meant. I haven't told her yet.
I'm waiting till I get reassigned."

"Maybe Homicide, huh?"

"I wouldn't mind it."

"Yeah, but would Phyllis?"

Chris didn't answer. They smoked their cigarettes
and could hear fire equipment arriving. Jerry
said, "Hey, I was kidding. Don't be so serious."

"I know what you're saying," Chris said. "Phyllis
is the kind of person that speaks out. Something
bothers her, she tells you about it."

"I know," Jerry said.

"There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"

"I'm not saying anything against her."

"What it is, Phyllis says things even some guys
would like to but don't have the nerve."

"Yeah, 'cause she's a woman," Jerry said, "she
doesn't have to worry about getting hit in the
mouth."

Chris shook his head. "I don't mean putting
anybody down or being insulting. Like we're at a
restaurant, one of those trendy places the waiter
introduces himself? This twinkie comes up to the
table, he goes, 'Hi, I'm Wally, I'm gonna be your
waitperson this evening. Can I get you a cocktail?'
Phyllis goes, 'Wally, when we've finished dinner,
you gonna take us out and introduce us to the
dishwasher?' She goes, 'We really don't care what
your name is as long as you're here when we want
something.'"

Jerry grinned, adjusting his Tiger baseball cap.

"That's good, I can appreciate that. Those guys kill
me."

They drew on their cigarettes. Chris looked at
his, about to say something, working the butt between
his thumb and second finger to flick it away,
and the French doors and some of the windows on
this side of the house exploded out in a billow of
gray smoke tinged yellow. They stood looking at
the shattered doorway, at the smoke and dust thinning,
settling over glass and wood fragments,
shreds of blackened green-and-white debris on the
patio, silence ringing in their ears now. After a few
moments they started down the drive, let the people
waiting in front know they were okay.

Chris said, "Yeah, the twink comes up to the
table, says he's gonna be our waitperson. But you
have to understand, Phyllis wasn't trying to be
funny, she was serious. That's the way she is."

The Good, the Bad and the Internet (Guest post by Claude Bouchard)

I first met Claude Bouchard through Twitter. He was a fellow writer and seemed socially nimble, able to speak fluent writer's language, yet have a prankster mentality all at the same time. I decided one day to read his very first novel "Vigilante," and boy am I glad I did.  It's a terrific read.  He's now an experienced author of four Barry/McCall novels which began with "Vigilante."  Claude has been in the publishing trenches for many years, so when he has something on his mind, it's only right to give him a forum for his views.
He currently lives in Montreal, Canada with his wife Joanne and their two cats, Krystalle and Midnight.  Claude is represented by Tribe Literary Agency.

The Good, the Bad and the Internet:

When I started writing in 1995, any required research was done using reference books, encyclopaedias, maps, etc, as well as onsite visits if one hoped to write with accuracy. When it came time to query agents, the process was done by snail mail, with SASEs included, hopefully for a request for a partial or full manuscript but more often than not, a ‘thanks but no thanks’ letter sent with the stamp I paid for.


Then cometh the Internet; Slow at first, hardly user-friendly navigation on most sites and without necessarily a wealth of information. However, time does fly and we found ourselves nearing the year 2010, then beyond, with today’s Internet. Millions upon millions of users, sites, blogs, references, dictionaries, modes of communication, digital photos, videos, satellite maps and more, a researching writer’s dream. With works I’ve written in recent years, no longer was I required to head downtown to scope settings for exactitude, nor did I have to drive around North America or fly abroad to ensure that locations were as I described. Rare has it been that I couldn’t find that bit of information that I absolutely needed to make something just right. With finished works, the Internet allowed me to self-publish and make my novels available to the masses. It also allowed me to tell the masses, through social media platforms and other advertising, that my books were there for them. Thanks to the Internet, I even found my amazing agent without having to buy one stamp. Others whom I’ve met have had similar experiences and have produced wonderful works of literature as well. This is all good.

Because of the Internet and, more specifically self-publishing service providers, anyone can now call themselves a writer and I do, unfortunately, mean anyone. In the last year or two, I have come to realize that many of these ‘writers’ do not know what a writer, or a novel for that matter, actually is. Self-publication does not and must not mean that one can simply have stuff written, printed and bound in a book format. Yet, this is what many people do. Improper formatting, horrendous grammar, typos, poor or no research, spotty or lacking storylines all contribute to giving self-publication a bad reputation which it doesn’t deserve. I’ve read such books and given my opinion, with examples, to such writers to be told that, “That’s the best that I can do, I’m not a professional, I have no one to help me, I can’t afford an editor…” The list goes on. Writing is an art form and if one doesn’t have the talent to do so, one should not call oneself an artist, nor have the gall to expect the masses to pay for substandard work. When one does, this is all bad.

The Internet and the abundance of possibilities it offers are amazing resources but should be used as additional benefits and tools without letting established publishing standards slide.

 

AUGUST 2010 WINNER--SUZANNAH BURKE

Congratulations to Suzannah Burke for winning the August 2010 Strong Scenes Contest.  Her scene was voted on by the readers and chosen among some tough competition.  Thanks to everyone who participated. I received over 100 submissions so there were some worthy efforts who didn't make the finalists.  Suzannah's scene can be read below, hers was the first one, letter A.  Although her scene was certainly creative, I would suggest you think twice before accepting an invitation to meet her anywhere near a swamp.

AUGUST 2010 FINALISTS

Once again I received a great wealth of remarkable writing.  This is what I imagined might happen when I came up with this concept.  The hardest part is narrowing it down to just four.  Ali Koomen probably deserves a lifetime achievement award, it seems her work is a constant fixture as a finalist.  She deserves it, she's a terrific writer. 
Okay, I'm going to let the readers decide the winner again this month.  I'm posting the scenes below with a letter next to the name--go ahead and vote for the strongest scene on the poll to the right.  Thanks to everyone for your submissions.  Good luck.

A- Suzannah Burke:

"Oh dear, Ben, you mustn't die on me just yet. You have more to look forward to. I'm afraid I've been a naughty, naughty girl." Samantha whispered, leaning down and very gently brushing the hair back from his face. "I never did learn not to eavesdrop on phone conversations; men are such fools."


“Can you ever forgive me?” She laughed delightedly as she kicked off her high heels. She grabbed Ben under both arms, and dragged him the short distance to the creek. Two crocodiles lay close-by, silhouetted in the moonlight. She looked down into Ben's terrified eyes, and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead.

"You won't be lonesome, Ben. You see, most of the others are here as well."

Sam walked back to the table, filled her champagne glass, and returned to watch the action, standing a safe distance from the water.

"Here they come, Ben!" she called gaily. "Say hello to momma for me."

Sam turned and walked away, smiling happily as she heard his agonizing scream of good-bye.

She sat down, poured another glass of Bollinger, lit up a smoke, picked up her pen, and began to write. WANTED: Male Ranch Hand...


B- Charlie Wade:

His long hair bouncing around, Red Arrow searched for the package. Hands soaked with perspiration fumbled with the office drawer.


“Where is it?”

Slumping to the floor, he cradled his head in his hands.

“What have I done?”

Looking round the office, there was two hiding places: drawer and filing cabinet. The locked cabinet should have been its home, but Red remembered putting it the drawer.

Though paid to hold various packages, it wasn’t really Red’s thing; he preferred undercover work though never seemed to get any.

“Filing cabinet.” He looked inside. Moving papers around, stacking, separating and eventually removing everything didn’t help. It just wasn’t there.

Crashing to the floor, his own heavy breathing filled his ears.

“I’ve lost it?”

The package was only a small jiffy bag. Red didn’t know the contents, he never did. That wasn’t relevant; he was paid enough to not ask questions. This jiffy belonged to his best and most fearsome customer.

It was also his only customer.

And, he wasn’t a customer, he was a psychopath.

Red hadn’t met him, but he’d been warned: never mess up.

He’d messed up.

Gulping another breath, Red forced himself to think.

“Where is it?”

C- Ali Koomen:

With trembling fingers, Hope turned the page, then the next. Horrifying images assailed her. A sacrificial ceremony too realistic to have been drawn from imagination. A conflagration, with faces pressed to windows in a rictus of ecstasy. An eviscerated corpse being skinned. . .


Suddenly, the source of the leather cover became apparent. With a shudder of disgust, she shoved the book away from her. A page came loose and drifted to the floor. She bent to pick up the errant sheet, opened it and let out a moan.

A charcoal drawing of her son stared back at her.

It was impossible. The paper was yellowed and brittle; it had been drawn years, if not decades ago. But why? How? A noise came from the cellar, a murmuring sound, but one with cadence, like a chant heard from a long ways off. Running to the door, she secured the top bolt. The sound stopped.

Hope ran to the kitchen phone and picked up the receiver. It had no dial tone, just a faint, far-away crackling sound. Underneath it all she sensed the amusement of whoever. . .whatever. . .was on the line. Slamming it down, she screamed out her son’s name.

D- Tom Hart:

The door ripped away and flew out to the airstream beyond the aircraft, and a rush of cold air struck him with the chill scream of a banshee looking to claim its victims. Somewhere deep within him a tiny spark of hope let him believe he could make it. Colonel Lucky Larson, noted pilot, makes it three in a row. The only man alive to walk away from three major crashes. He tried desperately to scramble through the opening as klaxon horns blared from every side. The pavement outside rushed toward him with its angry, earthly fist of concrete, and Larson became vaguely aware of his involuntary relaxation followed by a spreading warmth inside his flight suit. His eyesight began to dim, then blur and then darken entirely as the cacophony dissipated and grew silent. It seemed as though he had found a way to make it three, but reality suddenly propelled him back to the interior of the doomed aircraft. He couldn’t hear himself scream as the aircraft sliced into Highway 73-75 and burst into a huge fireball.

5 QUESTIONS FOR AUTHOR JUDITH L. PEARSON

Judith L. Pearson has that rare ability to be creative yet entrepreneurial.  She's published two hugely successful biographies about war heroes who've flown under the the radar--has had her books optioned for films, has been the guest speaker to a group of CIA agents at CIA Headquarters and has commanded thousands of dollars for speaking engagements around the world. What gets lost sometimes is just how talented a writer she really is.  She was kind enough to take a few minutes to discuss projects new and old.

1- What inspired you to write your first two books about two entirely different types of war heroes in the second World War?

The war played a key role in stories my dad told me as a child. He had been an Air Corps pilot and we would often watch WWII movies together, with him explaining the intricacies of espionage and warfare. I loved the movies, I loved the music, I loved the way the country came together as one.

I was a freelance newspaper and magazine writer when the story that became BELLY OF THE BEAST fell into my lap. It was such a powerful story, with real life heroes, I realized it was more than an article, it had to be a book. Looking for another WWII story after that was a little harder. But as happened the first time, the story of Virginia Hall fell into my lap, and writing WOLVES AT THE DOOR was an enormous personal success. Spies don’t write letters or leave diaries. Digging up the info became a quest.

2- What doors have been opened for you because of the incredible success of those two books?
 
A secene from WOLVES was selected as the subject of a painting to be hung in the Central Intelligence Agency Fine Arts Collection. The painting was unveiled at the French Ambassador’s residence in Washington D.C., and I (being an ex-advertising agency exec) wrote my own press release about the event. It was picked up by the Associated Press, which in turn turned into interviews with media outlets worldwide. That led to contacts from Hollywood. The book is now in option with Out of the Blue Entertainment for a major motion picture.

The producers, Sid and Nancy Ganis, have asked that I consult on the script writing and on set. Think I’ll get to rub elbows with any celebs? Depending on the stars involved, I may want to rub cheeks as well!

3- What are your daily writing habits?
 
That’s a funny question at this point in my career. I am, by nature, very disciplined when it comes to writing. But 18 months ago, life intervened. I met a wonderful man, fell in love and married him two months ago. Over the course or our courtship, I was starry eyed, and not terribly driven to write. The teenager in me returned in full force. Our meeting and the events leading up to it were so sweet, I’ve had lots of folks tell me it’s the stuff of romance novels. Just one more book to write.

That aside, in general (and you have my word, from this point on!) I get up, work out, clean up and hit the keyboard. I have an office in my home, so I venture downstairs to fix lunch and take it back to my office. I work until 3 or 4, depending on what the rest of my life holds that day.
Writing non-fiction is a little different than fiction in that there’s a great deal of research involved. That includes interviews, books, internet searches, trips to libraries and archives, and more. I never feel I’m really “working” unless I’m actually putting words on paper. But of course, that’s not true. Often, I take books or my laptop to bed, reading with one eye and watching TV with the other. My husband does the same, and we agree on “quittin’ time.” Otherwise I’d be surfing and highlighting all night.

4- Why did you choose to write and speak specifically about women's courage?

As a result of writing two books about very courageous people, one a man and one a woman, I realized that women behave very differently when frightened, stressed or facing obstacles, the very times we most need our courage. But courage has always been measured by a male yardstick, involving lots of physical acts that most women can’t accomplish. Women see that and assume they’re not courageous, and with that attitude, are far less inclined to tackle things that might require courage.

My interest in the subject morphed into speaking engagements around the country. And the speaking launched the idea for the book I’m working on now. Don’t you love this segue to the next question?

5- What's on the horizon for you? 

Glad you asked, Gary! I’m currently at work on a book entitled A DIFFERENT KIND OF COURAGE. It weaves together current gender/brain research (yes, we DO behave differently than you do and no, we CAN’T help ourselves), and anecdotes of women who’ve been courageous in various walks of life. These include business, government and politics, on the front line, facing chronic illness, in education, in violent situations, and more. Each story is accompanied with cutting edge research results explaining why women behave as they do when stressed and frightened, and why working together rather than against men in these situations is a good thing.

The book will also include the results of a nationwide survey. I would invite all your female readers to take the survey on my website at www.courageconcepts.com. And expect the book early next year.

JULY 2010 WINNER -- LEAH PETERSEN

Congratulations to Leah Petersen, the winner of July's Strong Scenes Contest.  Her submission was scene "A" below.  Take a moment to view her work, it really had a lot going on for such a short scene. I had the readers vote this time and they did a great job.  It was very close though, mostly due to the solid entries I continue to see month after month.  Congrats to all the finalists as well.

JULY 2010 FINALISTS

This month I'm going to try something different--mix it up a little.  I'm going to post the 4 top finalists, then let the readers decide which one should win.  This is an experiment, so let's see how it turns out.  Depending on how it goes, I might keep it this way or switch it back or change it again, who knows.  Inevitably my only goal is to give writers a place to get their work scene. Deadline is Saturday, July 31st.

Below are the 4 finalists and there's a poll to the right with the corresponding letters to vote for.  Good luck to the finalists and thanks to all who submitted there was some terrific scenes which didn't make the final 4. 


A- Leah Petersen:

She brought her lips to his again. “I love you,” she murmured, her lips whispering against his.

He stiffened and pulled back just enough that she could see his face. His eyes were wide.

And why not, at such a shocking declaration? She was young, and beautiful, and heir to lands and titles and fortunes. And what was he?

He was dead.

His body slid to the floor with the gracefulness she’d loved in him. The life in his eyes was already gone. It had been very quick. She was accurate in everything she did.

She slid her knife from his breast and wiped it clean on her own skirt. All of the other times she had used the clothes of her victim and what did it matter to them? But this time it mattered, to her.

Matthew would make her pay for this, make her howl until she had no more voice and still he would hurt her. She hadn’t failed, she had defied him.

She could have made the boy suffer, as she’d been told. She could have made him die slowly and in terrible pain. She knew she was capable of it. So there was some victory in this. That she had killed her lover quickly and painlessly not out of weakness, but by choice.

She stood and looked down at him.

One tear escaped and she brushed it away, not realizing that she’d replaced the tear track with a smear of his blood.

B- Lindy Rahn

They picked up her things and began along the pier towards the Sydney Aquarium, holding hands. Luke’s grasp made her feel safe and comfortable. It was the one thing that had been missing and now she had it back.


‘How did you find me?’ she asked, curious. After James, Flora had made very sure that she would only be found be those she wanted to find her. A very small list of people had access to her whereabouts.

‘As soon as Juli cancelled the wedding, I ditched my job and went back to Perth only to discover that you’d taken leave and were off travelling. I’ve been following you ever since with the help of PJ and Louise. They forwarded me the emails you sent to them.’ He held up his Blackberry waggling it in the air. The wonders of modern technology. Then he regarded her sternly, ‘you know, if you were a regular twenty something it would have been easy to find you… I could have just checked your Facebook status or sent you a text. But not you. Tell me again why you don’t have a mobile phone?’

Flora was silent. They both knew she didn’t trust mobiles anymore. Still, she smiled, ‘Well, it’s lucky I’m not a regular girl. Then you’d never have loved me.’

‘What do you mean ‘loved?’ I love you more than I ever did, even though I never said it… and Flora?’

‘Yes?’

Luke fell to his knees. There, in the middle of the queue to see the seals, he gazed up into her aqua eyes as the crowd around them began to clap and cheer. ‘I don’t ever want to be apart from you again. I want to marry you.’

Flora could feel the tears welling. ‘Is this the part where I say ‘yes’?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hmm. Well, alright, but on one condition.’

‘Oh God.’ He hoped she wasn’t going to make him dress in some stupid top hat and tails or something. ‘What?’

‘We need to go back to Enrico’s before the wedding so you can learn to waltz. Your timing really sucks.’


C- Cyndi Tefft

A hazy sheen of smoke was visible in the moonlit room, wispy tendrils silently jostling one another for space on the ceiling. “Oh shit!” I cried, my mind finally coming up to speed. I leapt out of bed and raced down the stairs. The acrid stench of smoke filled my lungs and burned my eyes as I grabbed the fire extinguisher from behind the refrigerator. I batted at the smoke with my free hand and it taunted me, moving away and then quickly circling back. I pulled the pin on the extinguisher and squeezed the handle, praying that it would work. A spray of white foam poured from the container and I swept it back and forth over the base of the flames.


My eyes were watering uncontrollably and I squeezed them shut, focusing all my energies on putting out the fire. My arms and legs began to shake as the extinguisher spit out its final droplets of foam. I scrambled over the floor toward the door, tripping on the footstool and knocking my forehead against the hardwood floor. Crawling on my hands and knees, I strained to make it to the door to the outside deck. The suffocating pressure in my chest held me in place and I reached out in desperation before my arm fell limp and all strength was gone.

Aiden…

I called to him in my mind with my last conscious thought, then surrendered to the dense grey fog that consumed me.



D- Ali Koomen


“Is it you? Is it really you?”

The girl nodded. “My name is Mallory, and you are my mother.”

Geneva’s hand went to her mouth. It was impossible to take her eyes from her daughter’s face. Eventually, she recalled Scott’s presence and turned to him. “Scott, I don’t—”

“Please, don’t be angry with him,” Mallory said. “I knew I was adopted--when I was twelve, I found the adoption papers. I have always known something was missing. I’ve always wanted to find my birth parents, and now you have found me.” She paused, her voice heavy with tears. “Scott told me about how young you were, and how he wanted you to get an abortion. But you were so brave, travelling to a country halfway across the world. I’ve had a wonderful life, almost a fairytale existence, something I would not have known had you not been so courageous. Thank you, for loving me so much, for being so selfless.”

Geneva looked at Scott. “Thank you,” she whispered. He nodded his head in acknowledgement.

Mallory looked from one to the other. “I think that you two need to continue to find your way back to each other. If nothing else, could you do that for me?”

Scott looked at Geneva, and she could see the old daring-do in his eyes. She turned to her firstborn, and said what parents have said since the beginning of time, when they’re not completely certain of the outcome:

“We’ll see, dear. We’ll see.”

WAITING (Guest Post by Luke Romyn)

Here's what you need to know about Luke Romyn:  He lives in Cairns, Australia, between the Great Barrier Reef and the Daintree Rainforest. He's an extremely talented writer (I read The Dark Path and slept with the lights on for two weeks).  He spent 15 years in the security business only to jump into the most insecure business available--publishing.  Below are his thoughts on the subject of WAITING: 


Waiting….


Every writer who has tried to get their work published in any way, shape or form knows what I’m talking about.

Waiting….

Aspiring authors, prepare yourself for the wondrous world of limbo which exists between completing your work, polishing it to perfection, submitting it to whatever or whoever you have chosen will be honored with receiving such a wondrous gift of imagination and skill and –

Waiting….

Waiting….

Waiting….

Sometimes you’ll get that letter. You know the one. It’s the stamped, self addressed envelope you sent away with your submission, which you yearn to open and yet dread to see what it’ll say. We always open it, hoping it’ll say our dreams are about to come true.

Wrong!

Your world crashes down around you and you never, ever want to write another thing ever again, but being the eternal optimist you are you send off another submission the next day… and the next time… and every time you get that rejection. Because you’re a writer.

Writers are not only people born with perfect diction, nor are they always fantastical wordsmiths who can create vistas beyond the imaginings of mere mortals by threading their multi-syllable words together in such ways to break through new barriers in the art of articulation.

No.

A writer is something else entirely. A writer wakes each day yearning to express themselves through words, their mind and imagination screaming for release through the power of strikes on a keyboard or the scribbling of pen on paper. Other skills which they may require can be learned, but the heart of a writer remains the same, regardless of their background, ethnicity, education or religion.

Because they are the ones who will fight through those rejections, battling self doubt and endure the endless –

Waiting….

– forever with the hope that one day, just one time, that letter will contain the one word which will have made all the pain and stress worthwhile. Three letters each and every writer universally yearn to hear:

Y-E-S.

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A SHORT STORY AND A NOVEL

Over the years I've seen discussions in magazines and on blogs about the intrinsic difference between a short story and a novel.  This might seem trite but the answer is more than just length.  A short story is usually one or two scenes.  That's it.  And don't waste your time telling us he had green eyes and brown hair and a cute mole on the tip of her earlobe.  The clock is ticking.  You need to begin with a conflict.  The protagonist has to overcome a challenge and we'd better discover that pretty soon.  Normally short stories are around 2500-3500 words, so don't dilly-dally.  I'm not saying you can't set the scene with a full moon or a distant howl from a coyote.  That's okay, as long as it's taking us somewhere. 

I've been fortunate enough to have published quite a few short stories (many are available in full on my website) and everyone of them starts with dilemma.  A clairvoyant patient visits a psychiatrist because she hears aliens discussing the destruction of the planet.  A man gets arrested because he can't handle the stress of his job and that's the only place he can find respite.  These are just two of the ideas I turned into stories. 

The novel, however, requires an entirely different pace.  Now just because you have more time to develop your characters please resist the temptation to describe your protagonist through a glance at a mirror, or someone commenting on their green eyes, brown hair, or cute mole on the tip of her earlobe.  You'd better start with some form of conflict pretty quick and keep that tension going throughout the novel.  The difference is the conflict probably won't get resolved for a few hundred pages instead of fifteen.  Does anyone know what Jack Reacher really looks like?  We know he's big, and that's about it.  Lee Child doesn't waste time with such insignificant details.  We know the shape of the road he's travelling because it will become useful at some point forward.

Now all of this pertains to most genre fiction, so don't get all tangled up trying to make sense when it comes to romance novels, because that is a completely different animal all together.  Let's face it, the details of someone's anatomy are usually the most important part of the story.

Of course the best advice is to study the short story before churning one out.  There's plenty of great fiction in today's literary magazines and journal's.  Just remember, start strong and finish strong.  What did you think I was going to say on a blog named Strong Scenes.  

JUNE 2010 WINNER--KENT OSTBY

Congratulations to Kent Ostby for winning the Strong Scene Contest for June 2010.  Check out Kent's scene below, his was scene # 1.  Literary Agent Cari Foulk was the honorary judge and she really enjoyed all four finalists.  In the end she felt Kent's scene had a simple, yet realistic feel to it.  Also she found the ending very impressive.  It was a hard choice for her as she asked for extra time to really give these scenes a good look.  Congrats to Kent and a big thanks to Literary Agent Cari Foulk with Tribe Literary Agency.