The Fourth Prompt

NOTE: This is a perfect example of why it is so difficult to start a new habit. I swear I need an alarm to remind me to do this every morning. It's been a little while since I posted one of these ... not because I'm not writing, but because I've forgotten to actually do this exercise each morning. I've woken up and been so ready to begin work on my current project I've neglected these morning exercises. Anyway, here goes nothing ...

It has been suggested to me that, as an exercise to warm up the creative juices, each day before I sit down to work in my current work in progress I should spend fifteen minutes writing in a "stream of consciousness" manner on a given prompt.

What this means is ... find a writing prompt, set a timer, write whatever comes to mind based on that writing prompt within the time allotted. Don't worry about editing and you go. Don't worry about grammar, punctuation, or spelling. Just write it and allow your creativity to flow.

(I should mention, this type of "by the seat of my pants" writing is the complete opposite from how I normally work. I am a very strict and rigid outliner.)

So ... this is my plan for the winter of 2016-2017. Each day before I go to work on my work in progress, I will select a prompt at random and write whatever comes to mind. I won't edit, I won't worry about typos, grammar or punctuation. I'll just write.

Then I'll post what I write here.

It promises to be an interesting exercise. So without further ado, here is today's prompt:

Write a scene showing a man and a woman arguing over the man's friendship with a former girlfriend. Do not mention the girlfriend, the man, the woman, or the argument.

One hundred forty three. The number of fragments, scattered across the floor, of Great-Grandma Mertyl's beloved China serving dish. A slit in the wall, a hole really, the length of one of those pieces, cracks and splinters, spidering its way across the plaster.

Thirteen. The number of decibels measured from the neighbor pounding on the wall. His fist vibrates the plaster throughout. Shakes the shelf holding Mom's collection of Graceland memorabilia. One of the two screws fastening the shelf to the wall bounces out of its hole with each thump. Pulls from the plaster, sagging the shelf, telegraphic its inevitable demise.

Three hundred eight five. The number of degrees displayed on the oven's readout. Sixty degrees more than dinner called for. The pungent tang of burnt flesh creeps from the oven vent. Black smoke spirals from behind its closed door.

Two. The number of children hiding in their rooms. The boy sits in his closet, headphones on, Rage Against the Machine turned up loud enough to drown out all noise. The girl has crawled under her bed, presses herself into the farthest corner with a pillow pressed into her ears.

The boy clenches his jaw. Tightens a fist until his fingernails bite into the palm of his flesh leaving half-moon dents on the heel of his hand.

The girl weeps into the pillow.

---- TIME'S UP ----

Holy crap, that was hard. How does one write a scene about three characters and a conflict without mentioning any of the characters or the conflict? While I think what I've written is interesting, it offers no insight into the characters or their conflict. I chose this writing prompt because of its level of difficulty, but I don't know that it has merit for an actual story. (Maybe I'll write a post one day on my theories on story.) The way this little exercise is going, the main characters are going to be the kids, not the parents having the argument. The conflict will be about how they cope with their parents arguing, not about the ex-girlfriend.

Fun project, but not something that can evolve into a fleshed out story about those particular characters (as I've mentioned).

The Third Prompt

It has been suggested to me that, as an exercise to warm up the creative juices, each day before I sit down to work in my current work in progress I should spend fifteen minutes writing in a "stream of consciousness" manner on a given prompt.

What this means is ... find a writing prompt, set a timer, write whatever comes to mind based on that writing prompt within the time allotted. Don't worry about editing and you go. Don't worry about grammar, punctuation, or spelling. Just write it and allow your creativity to flow.

(I should mention, this type of "by the seat of my pants" writing is the complete opposite from how I normally work. I am a very strict and rigid outliner.)

So ... this is my plan for the winter of 2016-2017. Each day before I go to work on my work in progress, I will select a prompt at random and write whatever comes to mind. I won't edit, I won't worry about typos, grammar or punctuation. I'll just write.

Then I'll post what I write here.

It promises to be an interesting exercise. So without further ado, here is today's prompt:

A man has a terrifying dream in which he is being sawn in half. He wakes to find himself in the Indian Ocean, naked and clinging to a door; a hotel keycard is clenched in his teeth. Write what happens next.

You never think about the thirst when you hear stories of people stranded at sea. Your brain seems to slide over the fact you can't drink the water in the ocean. Something to do with osmosis in the stomach lining and intestines. Who would've thought drinking water would lead to dehydration. So here I sit, blistering in the noonday sun, rows of grand canyons stripe my lips, my eyes gummed closed. My dick shriveled and blistered like some aging, diseased porn star.

The two hours since I woke were spent hiding, floating in the water under the door ... my only salvation ... hiding from the sun. Staying in the shade. That was when the first fin appeared. You worry about never being able to get back up on such a small surface again. You worry your weight will just capsize the door and you'll be stuck in the water. Do it under the threat of a pain-searing death and see what you're capable of.

Looking back, maybe a shark attack would have been better. Faster, anyway, than exposure. They bump the bottom of the door sometimes. Try to kick me loose, bounce me into the water so they can have their snack. Bet they can smell me. The rot already forming before I'm dead.

I think, what if I can sharpen the edge of this keycard, turn it into a knife. Maybe hack away pieces of the closest shark, but the keycard bends. It's not strong enough.

There's no land in sight. No ships or boats. Nothing but me on this fucking door and the sharks. Sometimes I hallucinate. Hear voices coming from the water, from under the door where the sharks are. Like they're calling to me, maybe asking each other where I've gone. Making a plan for how to "get me."

Before this. Before the ocean and the door and the sharks. Before the stench of death settled upon me I'd checked into a room. That much I remember. Not a lot else, but the room ... the cheap wall painting screwed into the drywall, the green carpet. Not green like a pine needle, more like the green of an avocado cut thirty minutes ago, going brown. The matching toilet and sink. The lemon meringue wall tiles in the bathroom. Psychedelic colors.

There's that voice again. "Where'd he go?" And the other voice, "Check the door." And a bump and my body bounces an inch and hits again. Hallucinations must mean I'm getting close. Close to death. Close to giving the sharks a tasty meal.

Who knows how long I've been out here like this.

Then there's a beep. Electronic. High pitched. Like a tuning pipe, but short. Beep. Just once. Looking around there's no one there. No boats.

--- TIMES UP --- (but I'm going to finish my thought)

You'd've heard the diesel roar of their engines before you heard any kind of electronic beep. Then it happens again. Beep. And this time there's a click. Vibration shinnies its way up my arm, through my elbow, into my shoulder, straight to the base of my neck.

Looking down, the maglock on the door, the spot where the keycard goes, it's lit up. Red. Like when you put in the wrong card, or pull your card out, too fast.

Another bump from below, and this time I slide down, my legs splash in the water.

What's it matter? If I fall in, let the sharks have me? Who's going to care?

Beep

I've lived a life of structure. A life of should-be's and propriety. Why not give in to the hallucination? Why not? If I'm on my way out. Why not go out with style? Maybe it'll freak out the sharks. Give them a story to tell their shark friends at least. "Dude came right through the door like he was room service," they'll say. It'll be my little part to the shark community.

I twist the handle. Locked.

Nothing is ever easy.

The keycard slides into the hole. The red light flashes green. The handle twists again and I'm falling. Waiting for the splash and the first bite of jagged teeth. Instead arms are grabbing me, dragging me over avocado carpet, throwing me onto a bed as hard as the door had been.

Voices are talking, asking me where I've been, asking about Bridget, asking where she hid the flash drive.

Like the muse beating me on the head, I think, Sharks don't have to live in the ocean. Then I'm asking for a glass of water.

-- Since it seems like I'm the one counting ... here's 462 words before the time went off. I still find myself going back to correct typos where my fingers get out of control, going back to change a thought every once in a while, to change the way a sentence looks. I'll try not to do that going forward, but it's tough. Thanks for reading. --

The Second Prompt

It has been suggested to me that, as an exercise to warm up the creative juices, each day before I sit down to work in my current work in progress I should spend fifteen minutes writing in a "stream of consciousness" manner on a given prompt.

What this means is ... find a writing prompt, set a timer, write whatever comes to mind based on that writing prompt within the time allotted. Don't worry about editing and you go. Don't worry about grammar, punctuation, or spelling. Just write it and allow your creativity to flow.

(I should mention, this type of "by the seat of my pants" writing is the complete opposite from how I normally work. I am a very strict and rigid outliner.)

So ... this is my plan for the winter of 2016-2017. Each day before I go to work on my work in progress, I will select a prompt at random and write whatever comes to mind. I won't edit, I won't worry about typos, grammar or punctuation. I'll just write.

Then I'll post what I write here.

It promises to be an interesting exercise. So without further ado, here is today's prompt:

Earth was originally an intergalactic zoo that was abandoned after the enclosures broke down and the organisms began to mingle. Give a brief summary of (this) history of Earth and an explanation of it now from an alien's POV.

The tour-ship slowed pulled out of warp drive and instigated thrusters. A blue and green world filled my window on the port side of the ship. The overhead PA system crackled and Mwaktaub's voice filled the compartment.

To your left you should be able to make out the shining blue of planet Earth.

So this was Earth. I'd heard stories ... hell, we've all heard stories. It began as an empty rock. Not even vegetation grew there. Then, one day, the great scientist Orktaphab, while on a mission to Darklon 7, collected a species of amoebas that were to volatile to bring back to our home -- Ymidleban Q. But the amoebas, they had the potential to be the cure we were looking for ... the cure for the degenerative disease every Ymidleban male suffered, a disease that stripped away our manhood in slow tortuous nihilism.

So, Orktaphab brought the amoebas to Earth -- the desolate planet. He built a habitat for himself and his team (and the amoebas, of course) and went to work curing our disease. The allowed the amoebas to grow and thrive within the habitat, and several Ymidlebans traveled hundreds of light years just to gaze upon the microscopic creatures that saved our species.

From that day, as our kind roamed the universe, we would collect species from other worlds and bring them to Earth. We built them all habitats which replicated their own planets and the Orktaphab Foundation collected a fee for any Ymidleban curious enough to visit Earth and gaze upon the creatures. (The Orktaphab Foundation donated all its proceeds to young, aspiring scientests on Ymidleban.)

The first creatures to occupy habitats on Earth were small. Microscopic. Bacteria and viruses. Just larks. You had to take turns at the microscopes to be able to see them, and the Orktaphab Foundation wasn't even pulling in enough to support the expense of feeding the animals. So, the traveled to a distant planet and returned with giant lizards. Beasts four times the size of an escape pod, but just as stupid as the bacteria.

These beasts were quite an attraction. It seemed as though every Ymidleban child came to Earth in those days to see the great lizards. Of course, the Orktaphab Foundation shuffled in other creatures at the same time ... other attractions for people to see that weren't the great lizards. Short, squat mammals, for example -- furry creatures with short legs and wide black eyes. These were small enough you could cradle them in your arms.

They were in the "small animal" section, right next to an enclosure of a winged and feathered creature. Where the mammal had a soft pink nose and a tongue caged behind a row of squat teeth, these winged creatures had some

-- TIMES UP -- (but I'm going to finish my thought)

these winged creatures had some kind of hard protrusion. No tongue. No real nose. Just a ... I forget what they were called ... a bill of some sort planted on the end of its face.

We should have known the planet was doomed the day the forcefields failed and the small mammal creature and these winged bill-faced creatures interacted.

A year later, the habitat for small animals was crawling with this hybrid creature -- it was a small mammal covered in brown fur, but on its face was this horrible-looking abomination. A bill in place of its nose and mouth.



-- Good beginning. This is a fun experiment. The time keeps me from getting too invested in the story. I don't have to really care about what I'm writing because none of it is serious, so I can just write and let my imagination run wild.   463 words before the time, for those keeping track. --

The First Prompt

It has been suggested to me that, as an exercise to warm up the creative juices, each day before I sit down to work in my current work in progress I should spend fifteen minutes writing in a "stream of consciousness" manner on a given prompt.

What this means is ... find a writing prompt, set a timer, write whatever comes to mind based on that writing prompt within the time allotted. Don't worry about editing and you go. Don't worry about grammar, punctuation, or spelling. Just write it and allow your creativity to flow.

(I should mention, this type of "by the seat of my pants" writing is the complete opposite from how I normally work. I am a very strict and rigid outliner.)

So ... this is my plan for the winter of 2016-2017. Each day before I go to work on my work in progress, I will select a prompt at random and write whatever comes to mind. I won't edit, I won't worry about typos, grammar or punctuation. I'll just write.

Then I'll post what I write here.

It promises to be an interesting exercise. So without further ado, here is today's prompt:

It took us three days before we started seeing shapes in the fog.

Benji went on and on about not being able to breathe. He's say things like, "The fog is a poison gas. I know it. It's burning my lungs. Can't you feel it?"

I couldn't. It was just fog. Sure, it was dense. Thick. Almost solid, like cotton candy. But there was still air. It made walking hard, that's for sure. In a week Benji and me'd made it maybe five miles.

There're others out there. In the fog. You can hear them talking sometimes. Trying to start a fire, complaining of the cold. There's too much moisture in the air for a fire. The fog's too thick. All they're doing is burning energy. Maybe that's enough to keep them warm. For a little while, anyway. But it'll exhaust them, too. Make them tired. Weak. They won't have the strength to push on through the fog.

Nobody knows where it came from. This fog. When you hear somebody talking, making their way just like you are, you shout to them. Ask them where they've been. Who they've seen. Trade statistics like that. Each time you ask, any word on what this is ... where it came from? Always the answer is, "No."

Benji and me, we were working. Pouring a concrete patio at some doctor's house. The doctor's wife, she was a looker. Leg that went all the way up. Red hair. Freckles. Benji thought she could've used with some make-up, maybe a dye job. Not me. I would've convinced her to leave the doctor if I could've supported her lifestyle.

Anyways, me and Benji, we were pouring concrete when the fog came. Fast as a muscle cramp, it rolled in. Knocked Benji into the dirt. Pushed against me, backed me up one step at a time to the doctor's back door. Took me an hour to wade through the fog, to find Benji.

I grabbed him. Pulled him back to the doctor's house. Pounded on the door. The wife, the redhead, she opened the door, let us in. A little of the fog spilled in with us, hung there inside the back door like it was waiting for something, waiting for somebody to invite it in.

Phones still worked. At least then. For a day or two. The redhead called the doctor at work, some clinic down the road a couple miles. He said the fog was there, too. Said the radio's telling people to stay inside until the National Guard can show, figure out what it is. Says he'll make it home as soon as he can.

You can hear him on the phone, talking loud, even though it's pressed tight to Red's ear. You can hear him tell her not to let "the workers" in. He doesn't like the looks of "those men." Guess Benji and me are "the workers." Guess we're not supposed to be inside.

-- Time's Up --

Well, fifteen minutes really went by fast. I was getting into that. I'm not sure where it was going, but I was enjoying getting into the head of that character ... getting an idea of what he's all about, how he sees the world.

For those interested, that's 479 words in the fifteen minutes. I didn't go back and edit after the fact, but I also couldn't help stopping my fingers from correcting minor typos. When I get into a rhythm, fingers seem to hold down the Shift button quite a bit longer than necessary and I end up with words like THen or WHen (which I unconsciously go back to correct). I also inevitably get letters out of order on certain words when I type, so I end up with teh instead of the, which I also unconsciously go back and change. By the time I've hit the backspace and realize what I did, it's too late

Maybe one of these prompts will generate a nice idea for a short story I can flesh out one day. We'll see. That's it for today. Time to get to work.

Review: Writing Deep Scenes: Plotting Your Story Through Action, Emotion, and Theme

Writing Deep Scenes: Plotting Your Story Through Action, Emotion, and Theme by Martha Alderson
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Great, great, great book. This was a phenomenal look into the standard modern story structure, as well as a deeper look into scenes themselves. This should be a must-read for any aspiring writer, be it screenplay, novel, short story, or stage play. Anything with a plot and scenes ... read this book.

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Review: Three Parts Dead

Three Parts Dead by Max Gladstone
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

So ... I enjoyed this book. It was fun. ...but it was long. So long. Now, I'm a fan of epic fantasy. I dig A Song of Ice and Fire. I "grew up" on Terry Goodkind and Raymond Feist. It didn't feel like this book needed to be as long as it was. There were many elements that seemed too drawn out. I don't want anyone to think they shouldn't read this, because it is a great book. ... just long.

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Review: The Silence of the Lambs

The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This was a really fun book ... if you can call a book about a serial killer making a suit out of women "fun." I read this book as a reference for The Story Grid by Shawn Coyne. Shawn breaks down The Silence of the Lambs to illustrate how he (as an editor) edits book. So, for me, this book was doing double-duty. Not only was it informative from an educational standpoint, but it was entertaining as well. Of course, it must be, it's one of the best book-to-movie translations I've seen in a long time. Having seen the movie, I was prepared for everything in the book, but I still wanted to read more to discover what would happen next ... and how.

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Review: Fight Club

Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

It should come as no surprise this was a great book. I've read other Palahniuk books and rated them here. I specifically chose to read Fight Club because I'm reading through Chuck's 36 Essays on Craft over at LitReactor.com and he references Fight Club several times as examples illustrating the points he is trying to make. Having seen the movie first ... perhaps twenty years before reading the book ... I have to say I like some of the nuances in the movie better, but that shouldn't color the books impact.

Let's get on with the book's review: First, in standard Palahniuk style, we are dropped into a pool of humanity far reaching from anything we've likely experienced in our daily lives. We're talking the fringe people out on the edges doing whatever they can to survive, the only way they know how (reminds me of The Dukes of Hazzard theme song). Anyway, I'm not going to go into a lot of the plot. This book (and the movie) have been around so long, everyone likely knows each step in detail.

What I would like to discuss is Chuck's style of prose and his characterization. I absolutely love the dysfunctional nature of his characters. The reason his characters are so memorable is because he takes their dysfunction and runs with it 100%. He doesn't shy away from anything with an ... "well, maybe this might offend someone." He just goes for it. So the narrator and Marla attend group help for various diseases as a means of relaxing and unwinding--even though they don't have the diseases themselves. He offers no judgment, and doesn't ask for the reader to judge, any of the characters. They simply are who they are and you (the reader) are meant to join them in a ride through this story. It's great. Unapologetic.

As for this style of prose: I don't know many authors who can match it. It's tight without losing detail. You really get a sense of the world the characters live in, without being inundated with minutiae. Palanhiuk sketches broad strokes and allows the reader's imagination -- from the reader's own experiences -- to fill in the blanks. The narrator's boss, for example ... I think the only description we really get of his relates to his Tuesday tie. It's something concrete and specific, but the rest is left up to us to fill in. I can think of one of my own bosses who fits the bill well.

All in all, a good read and one I would recommend.

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Review: The Ballad of Black Tom

The Ballad of Black Tom by Victor LaValle
My rating: 0 of 5 stars

This was a fun novella. Not entirely what I expected, but fun nonetheless. I really enjoyed the character of Tom and the police detective. I will have to look for more work by author Victor LaValle. Hopefully he has other books set in the same world so I can find out what happens to Tom and the detective moving forward. Fun read.

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Review: The Story Grid: What Good Editors Know

The Story Grid: What Good Editors Know by Shawn Coyne
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Holy crap. This book is amazing! As anyone who knows me can tell you, I'm a huge fan of story structure. I think it is one of the most important concepts to nail down in terms of writing commercial genre fiction. I've used the theory of story structure to write several novels and short stories, but after each one I thought the revision and rewriting process (i.e., editing) was a simple matter of cleaning up sentence structure. I knew I was missing something. My stories weren't selling, and I felt as though there ought to be some form of structured editing process as well. I am so thankful to Shawn Coyne for "The Story Grid," which offers exactly what I was looking for.

This book is dense, and Shawn is clearly a story nerd. He has done what most aspiring writers should do, but he's done it working as an editor. Namely, dissect stories to their smallest part to discover what works and what doesn't. We should all be doing this. I should be doing it, but to date, I haven't. It seemed like too much work for too little gain. Well, my friends, my eyes have been opened. Look out first draft. I'm going to tear you apart and tweak the nuts and bolts until you are prefect now.

I would recommend this book to anyone, everyone, who wants to write. Not only for his clear presentation of story structure (which can be used to outline a story) but for all the nuggets of gold for the editing process. I bought the eBook version, but will be going back to purchase the paperback so I can make copious notes and mark pages with information I'm sure I've forgotten in the vast amount of data within this book. It's not a huge tome, but there is so much in here it requires (at least for me) several read-throughs. (Thankfully, Shawn has a website with supplemental material to help support the book. I highly recommend it, too.)

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Review: The Hero's Guide to Saving Your Kingdom

The Hero's Guide to Saving Your Kingdom by Christopher Healy
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This book was fantastic. The conceit is a great twist on some very tired stories. I was reluctant at first because, really, who wants to read about a group of unnamed princes from other stories? There are so many of these kinds of things out lately that it seems everyone is jumping on the bandwagon to add their own version (think "Once Upon a Time," "Wicked," (or any other Gregory Maguire book). However, I had a nine-hour drive ahead of me and the audiobook to this title fit the time-slot perfectly.

When the story first began, Cinderellea's prince charming (Frederic) was a whiny little turd no one could like. Even worse, we liked (Cinder) Ella better. In fact, as the story progressed, and we met Gustav, Liam and Duncan, I was still afraid Ella was going to steal the show. She was far more proactive (and more of a protagonist) than any of the four princes. Here we were, following around the four guys who couldn't get their act together, while the woman was off outwitting witches and giants and saving captive prisoners.

Healy takes us on a long journey as these four princes learn to overcome their personal failures and work together as a team to actually save all of their kingdoms, and more. By the end of the book, I'm ready to read the second one. (In fact, while I have the audiobook of this first one, I will likely buy both the first and second book together so I can re-read the first in its intended format).

Regarding the audiobook version: Bronson Pinchot narrates the audiobook, and he is absolutely wonderful. If you can get your hands on the audiobook, I recommend it. He lends the perfect voice for each character, and his narration of the exposition is amazing. My only reference for Mr. Pinchot comes from his roles as the gay shopkeeper from Beverly Hills Cop and as Balki Bartokomous from the television show Perfect Strangers. I don't believe I have every once heard his natural voice (and perhaps I haven't yet).

I would highly recommend this book to anyone and everyone. It is such a fun and quick book. Amazing!

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Review: The Art of Subtext: Beyond Plot

The Art of Subtext: Beyond Plot by Charles Baxter
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Deeper than me

As a writer, I am always looking for books on craft in an attempt to hone my own techniques of craft. The Art of Subtext sounded intriguing. Subtext has always been an anomaly to me, something I assumed came during literary reviews and analysis, not for the author directly but, rather, from the reader and his or her own baggage.

Baxter has proven to me the author does have some responsibility in adding subtext of his own through dialogue, gesture, and facial expressions. That said, Baxter's analysis of the works referenced, and the subtext implicit in those works, was well over my head.

I feel I need to return to this book again, with referenced materials in hand, to fully understand Baxter's interpretations of the subtext within these stories.

Admittedly, I am not a "literary" author h it more of a commercial author. Perhaps I should be reading books withdrew meaning, or, perhaps, sometimes a frown is just a frown.

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Review: Shades of Milk and Honey

Shades of Milk and Honey by Mary Robinette Kowal
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I thoroughly enjoyed this book. Clearly. It's one of the few to which I've given more than a 3-star rating for some time. I'm going to admit something here which may seem blasphemous, but I've never actually read a Jane Austen book. I've seen all the movies (both the direct adaptations and those adaptations which were a little more obscurely veiled), but I've never actually read the books.

I first heard about Mary Robinette Kowal in an episode of Writing Excuses, a podcast developed which discusses writing techniques and writing life. She described her book as "Jane Austen with magic." I was intrigued, but the time period of Austen's books (and, by extension, this book) doesn't intrigue me. I simply cannot wrap my head around the pomp and circumstance of propriety like this.

That being said, I've had this book shelved on my #TRB list for almost a year. I've ready several of Mary's short stories, and enjoyed them, but getting into an Austen-esque novel seemed a daunting task. One I wasn't sure I wanted to undertake. However, since my goal this year is to read through as many of the science-fiction and fantasy classics upon which the genres were founded, I've already suffered through a relentless torrent of dry and underwhelming books. One more couldn't hurt. Right?

I cannot describe how relieved I was that this book was so intriguing and so well written. It wasn't dry or boring at all. It took me a little bit to get into the world of the story, to understand the propriety, to really wrap my head around the magic and root for the main character, Jane. But, by the time Mister Vincent is introduced, I was hooked and desperate to know not only what would happen to Jane, but I also needed to know what would happen to Jane's sister and Jane's friend and neighbor and the (view spoiler)[relationship "triangles" (hide spoiler)] they had been set upon.

This book truly was Jane Austen with magic. The magic is a part of the world, a part of life. It is integral to the climax but is not the sole means upon which the story was to be resolved. I really enjoyed this aspect of the book. Too often it's the cool magic which must be used in order for the characters to affect a favorable outcome. The magic was there, but it wasn't the magic which saved the day.

Anyway, I don't want to give too much away. All I can say is this: I would highly recommend this book to anyone, and it has made me want to give Jane Austen herself a try. Thanks, Mary.

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Review: This One Summer

This One Summer by Mariko Tamaki
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Perfect bittersweet coming of age story

I heard about this book from a friend who tolerable her hometown school's library pulled it from their shelves. Apparently, some rating scale had it listed at a second grade reading level (which, for comprehension, I could see).

I had to see what the fuss was about. I agree: not appropriate for second graders, but would be fine for the 12-18 year olds the publisher says it is for.

In the long run, this was a great coming of age story for a young girl. I would recommend it to anyone, even adults wishing to relive the turmoil of those days.

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Typos Happen

So I've been submitting short stories for some time. I've had some luck ... a couple of shorts accepted to a few places, but nothing paying. Anyway, I've been shopping this piece around a few place. I like to start with the larger markets and work my way down. So I've submitted to "Fantasy & Science Fiction," "Asimov's," and "Apex Magazine." So far I've only received form rejections. No big deal. It's part of the process. Right?
Anyway, I'm prepping this piece for submission to "Escape Pod," and I realize I have a typo in the title. I've sent this short story out to three different magazines, and to each I've had sent a misspelled title.
Oops.
I'm a little embarrassed. Not so much that I'm going to let it ruin my day. I realize submissions should be as clean and polished as possible. It's a sign of being a professional. But sometimes typos happen. Lesson learned. I've corrected the typo and submitted it to the next magazine.
Good luck moving forward.