Assignment for September

Here is the assignment for September. Don't forget to bring copies to share with the group. There were 22 writers at the last two meetings, so plan accordingly.


• Monday, September 13, 2010 6:30 – 9:00 PM
• Assignment: The interview

The newspaper/magazine you work for has assigned a feature article to you. They want a compelling interview with a local celebrity of sorts. The person of interest is YOU! So for this assignment you will wear two hats – that of the interviewer and interviewee. Pull out all the stops – while it might feel awkward and boastful, the bottom line is, for the interview to work, it has to be interesting! You are an interesting person. You’ve experienced things no one else in the room has. Your career or job is unique. Find something readers would be interested in and use questions an interviewer would ask.

Here are some sample questions:

1. What drew you to your career/neighborhood/volunteer position, etc.?
2. Where would you like to see yourself 10 years from now?
3. Who is your biggest fan/greatest supporter?
4. What impact would you like to leave behind?
5. What is the most difficult part of your job?
6. What gives you the most fulfillment?

You get the picture.

Because of the nature of this assignment, the word count limit is extended to 800.


“Write to be understood, speak to be heard, read to grow…”
-- Lawrence Clark Powell

John

JOHN

He writes of fiction

and speaks of facts

Yet little is known

of how this man acts

Once a month he writes

stories about the future

Leading us to believe

he is an unusual creature

The kindness in his eyes

shine on his jolly face

making us trust there is nothing

strange in that silver case

Perhaps body parts

Expensive jewels

Marked money or gold

For I'm sure this is a story

he wil forever leave untold

Interesting news in the publishing world

Hi all,
I belong to Rebecca's group and here is the latest with permission to forward.

Hi All,
I haven't shared Industry News lately and the discussion about Dorchester yesterday
sparked the realization we need to help each other stay as up to date as we can.
To that end, please share Industry links or news you gather on your travels around
the web. Everything from which publishers are accepting submissions to which ones
are changing staff is welcome.
Here are my contributions:
Barnes & Noble may be selling out.
B & N is waiting on a court ruling to see who will be eligible to purchase B & N.
it may actually be sold to the major stockholder now and go from a publicly help
company to a privately held one. Very interesting article, but I have no idea what
it means for the future of the company in terms of selling books.
s-seat.html
Dorchester goes EBook and POD
Here's an article about Dorchester's decision for everyone interested:
html
Can Any Author be Worth $50 Million Today?
A good article with insight into the thinking on advances and being a bestselling
author.
today-.html
Harper Collins Releases Enhanced EBooks
I'm not quite sure what an enhanced Ebook is, but Harper Collins thinks there's money
in them.
planned.html
Piers Anthony is back from vacation and updated his list for August.
Not much new there, but the rebuttal on the complaint against Class Act Books was
interesting.
html#V2
NOTE:
Please let me say, I have nothing against any author who currently contracts with
or is considering writing for Class Act Books. If you've had a good experience with
them, I am grateful and as happy for you as I would be if you were contracted anywhere.
You may promote those books here without problems as long as they fit into our M/F
guidelines and are sweet to sensual. Our problems are with CAB admins. not with other
authors. Please don't take anything we post about Class Act Books, or any publisher,
personally as we definitely do not intend it that way.
Book Publishing News Blog offers 3 new articles worth reading:
The first is about writing blurbs, the second about the growing self-publishing trend,
and the third about the anti-competitive EBook Deals Amazon and Apple may be called
on the carpet for.
com/
Also if you haven't checked out Bookcatcher
and the free writing and publishing tips there, I recommend it.
com
Okay, enough for now. Everyone have a great Monday!!!
Rebecca J. Vickery
Romance With A Twist
Home Website
Victory Tales Press

Exciting News

As an author for the Crimson line of The Wild Rose Press, the following email from our editor-in-chief this morning was quite thrilling. Her Biggest Fan won't be released until September, so the chances of it appearing in the movie with Bruce Willis is slim. But what a kudo for The Wild Rose Press. I am proud to be one of their authors. Here is the email straight from the lips of Rhonda Penders.

Every once in a while something comes along that is just plain cool. This is
one of those times. Until this week I have been unable to share this information
with all of you but now we have been able to secure the rights to tell our staff
and authors and spread the word. Here goes - bear with the long email - its
worth it I promise.
Last Christmas, we were approached by a representative for a Hollywood movie who
was in need of a "few" romance novels as set props. At first, I have to be
honest, I thought it was a bunch of bunk but as I entered into a conversation
with this gal I found out she was legitimate and when I found out exactly who
was in the movie they needed the books for…well I was giddy with excitement. Up
until now we were under a confidentiality clause until the movie "wrapped".
Well, the movie is done and set to release on October 15 so now I can share the
rest of the story with all of you.
Below my note are two links to two trailers for a movie called "RED". The movie
stars Bruce Willis (yes I said Bruce Willis!), and Mary Louise Parker as the
hero and heroine of this action packed flick. Mary Louise Parker (here's where
TWRP comes in) is addicted to reading romance novels especially romantic
suspense (Crimson rose anyone?). Bruce is trying to "woo" her by reading what
she likes to read so they can discuss the books. The movie set needed books to
fill Mary Louise apartment and some to put in Bruce's apartment as well. The
Wild Rose Press shipped 150 books to Buffalo where a truck picked them up and
trucked them to the movie set in Toronto. Filming took place this winter in
Toronto and in New Orleans. Others in the movie include Morgan Freeman, John
Malkovich, Helen Mirren and Ernest Borgnine. (Isn't this cool?).
We have no idea how m any of our books actually appear on screen - if any. For
all we know they may simply fill bookcases in the background - but there is a
chance for some closeups and even if there aren't - the very fact that our books
are connected with this film is fun. The production company offered us the
trailer for our web site - this way whenever someone searches for the trailer on
Google or whatever they might stumble on us as well. I will put a note up on
the web site explaining why we have the trailer on our site.
The next question everyone is going to ask me is what books were shipped? I
can't answer that. We sent over 150 books out - they wanted catchy covers and
romantic suspense so I can tell you that almost all our Crimson Rose print books
went there as well as any that I had in the warehouse here in NY. Our goal was
to not spend money to send these books - so I used all stock we had on hand as
much as I could. We were not paid for the books, however, they did cover all
shipping charges and have indicated we could have the books back if we want them
back when the movie is finished. I also, on a side note, shipped some pink
coffee mugs - who knows maybe these will be there somewhere too.
So to end this long email - the trailer on our site is linked below as well as
the other trailer that they have floating out there. If you can't get them to
open simply google "RED Bruce Willis" and you can find the trailers out there or
check out the NEWS section of our website for the actual link. It gives you a
great idea of how cool this movie is going to be. Our fingers are crossed that
our books will pop up on the screen but if not, well, we know they were there.
The movie opens October 15 and I plan to be there the first night so I can see
what we're looking for.
http://thewildrosepress.com/publisher/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=\ 2658&Itemid=185
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RkrRQ626oho
--
Rhonda Penders
Editor-in-Chief
www.thewildrosepress.com

Big Horses on the Prairie

Hi everybody,
This is a work in progress based on a family story a dear friend shared with me when she was in a nursing before she died several weeks later. Her husband, Wil, 86, and a former pastor and professor at Duquesne University, and I have fleshed it out to hopefully become a childrenss book. To become a picture book, it really should be around 1,200 words. This weighs in at a hefty draft horse size 3,000! PRESS (a National Writing Project term for "let me have it") on all aspects, particularly, putting it on a "diet," or what things can an illustration tell! Also, if you have a great idea for a title, I would be so appreciative. I'm in my home "sanctuary" an upstairs room with a television, table and computer as my achiles tendon heals inside a purple plaster cast. I'm doing the crutches thing better, so if my husband can bring me, HOPE to see you all on Monday. Love,Jane

Life on the Prairie

By Willard Mecklenburg and Jane Miller

Inez glanced at the thermostat on the back porch post. It read 34 degrees. She flicked it with her gloved hand.
“Must be broken,” she mused to herself, knowing that the snow would be melting if it were correct, and snow nearly covered her broom as she swept a path to wooden barrels that held 50-pound bags of sugar and flour. Inez opened the barrels, scooped out dry ingredients and brought inside the tin can of lard to begin making breakfast.
Barbara awoke to the smell of bacon cooking and the sound of her father, Harold, stomping his boots outside the door of her family’s 100-year-old prairie cabin. Before dawn, he had trudged to the barn to feed the livestock, including the team of horses.
A big job lay ahead today. The family’s coal bin was nearly empty. He must get more coal that day. Like most families that lived in Montana during the Great Depression, coal was used for a cook stove that also warmed the house. Montana storms were severe. The previous blizzard, with 60-mile velocity winds ripped tar paper off the outside of the cabin, and the winds that blew between the mud and log walls blew out the kerosene lamp.
Just like the horses, Harold needed a hearty breakfast, too. He ate a stack of three wheat pancakes that filled his dinner plate and several pieces of his home cured pork cut into strips of bacon, covered with Inez’ home made syrup that she made by boiling brown sugar in water.
Harold arose from the oak table. “I’ll be back this afternoon, Barbie-girl,” he said to his daughter, lifting her into the air. She giggled. He another layer of clothing over hid of woolen long longs, overalls, and shirts before pulling on his mackinaw. At the door, Inez handed him a scarf.
“You’ll need this. I just finished it last night before the wind blew out the kerosene lamp,” she said with a chuckle. “I’ll wear it for luck!” said Harold, making a flourishing sweep as he tossed the scarf end across his shoulder.
Harold harnessed Don and Buster together and hitched them to his grainery wagon sleigh. He planned to haul bituminous or soft coal, for their home. He would drive the team to his neighbor’s farm where two summers ago he had helped Mr. Olson dig a well. An outcropping of rock had concealed the shallow bed of coal about two feet below the surface of the sod. Mr. Olson had told him to help himself anytime he needed coal because “That’s what Prairie folk do. We need each other,” Mr. Olson told him when he offered to pay.
The sleigh bells jingled. The team headed across the prairie to an above-ground coal mine. At the mine there was a Fresno, which is like a wheel barrow, used to take off the top soil to get to the coal.
Back in the cabin, Inez began to teach Barbara how to thread a needle.
“Some women tell you to lick it. I say phooey,” Inez said to her daughter.
“Foo-ey,” Barbara repeated and giggled. In the warm weather months, they tended the garden where the family raised much of their food. This was the time to prepare for the year ahead. Together they made shirts and dresses out of the bright feed sacks bought each month with sugar, flour, and livestock grain.
The telephone rang. Inez stood to pick up the metal mouthpiece off the wall-mounted phone.
“Good morning, Stella!” Inez said into the mouthpiece. Their closest neighbor lived almost two miles away. Every day the two women talked on the party line phone that the farmers maintained by running a telephone wire on the top of their fences.
Barbara threaded a needle the way her mom showed her to sew her own sampler beneath her mom’s quilt frame. She and Tipper, her dog, pretended they were in a boat at sea, like pictures they had seen in books.
“You don’t say. It's so cold school has closed? Harold just headed out to get coal.”
“WOMAN, DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE TEMPERATURE IS OUTSIDE?” Stella’s voice boomed.
“No, our thermometer is broken,” and Inez started to explain, but Stella interrupted.
“Woman, it’s dropping to 30 degrees below zero—and another blizzard is blowing in!” Inez looked worriedly toward the frost-etched window.
“Harold will be all right. He’s got his team, and--,” but she was interrupted, again.
“Woman, don’t you know? Two frozen calves were found this morning,” said Stella.
“I’ll talk with you tomorrow,” said Inez quickly, as she watched Barbara, bent over her piece of fabric, stitching faster. Inez began stitching faster, too.

The sun had been shining brightly when the team reached the mine. The air was still. The wool scarf Inez made for him as well combined with his own breath warmed his face. Montana people and horses are accustomed to cold, he thought. He gave his team a rest from the harness, and opened a bale of hay for them to munch on while he dug away a layer of soft snow. Harold worked up a sweat as he dug.
His effort uncovered the coal he had helped to mine two summers ago. He used a shovel and a digging bar, which is like a long crow bar to reach the coal, about two feet below the surface of Mr. Olson’s yard. It was hard to digging in the blizzard-hardened snow.
The wagon mostly loaded, they broke for lunch. At noon Harold opened a colorful grain bag of oats and poured part of it into two large buckets, so that his hungry team could devour it while he ate the bacon sandwiches and drank the cold thermos of coffee Inez had packed for him.
The wind began to blow snow into freezing drifts, so Harold knew he better not delay. Within minutes the blizzard increased, and the temperature had dropped even lower. It was now bitter cold and Harold was glad for the new muffler that shielded his face, as he hitched his horses to the running gear and climbed into the driver’s seat. He could barely see as he looked across the prairie.
“Gee, boys!” Harold called as he pulled the reins left. The drifting snow was quickly making the road disappear, so he would take the tree-lined road along the rocky creek which was easier to travel in a storm than the shorter, main road they traveled that morning.
Don and Buster steadily pulled the load. Their efforts kept them warmer, but sitting on the driver’s seat, Harold was becoming chilled even through his heavy winter clothing. After riding his load for a couple of miles, he stopped.
“Whoa,” he called, pulling back on the reins. Still holding onto the leather straps, he climbed off the wagon and began walking between the horses and wagon. It would lighten the load for his horses, now laboring to pull against the wind. Harold was almost warm as he took large strides to keep up with his horses, but now they were struggling again against a wind like none he had ever known or heard about from other Montana farmers.
“We’ll come back here next week boys. It’ll still be here,” Harold thought. He wanted to say the words aloud, as he always talked to his team, but ice penetrated the scarf and it hurt to even breathe.
He grabbed the harness strap that united the three as a team. But it was a hard and brutal hike, and his strength was leaving his limbs. Home was still two miles away. Even without a load, he felt the horses’ burden. He was holding them back.
He pondered what to do. From his days as a cowboy trick rider, he knew he could find the strength to climb atop one of the horses. But he knew his weight would be too much in these strong winds. If they stayed where they were, and tried to wait the storm out, surely they would all die.
Harold thought of spring plowing days when his team faithfully followed his commands. His hands numb and shaking, knowing his own fate, he unfastened the harness that made them a team.
“Go home!” He could barely mouth the words and knew he needed to save every ounce of energy. He couldn’t see his way, but his horses would have an instinct for how to return to the barn.
“Get on home!” he commanded. Both horses stood still.
“Get home!” he tried to shout. They must leave. He swatted Buster on his rump, and the horse gave a little jump, obeyed the command, and started out at with a high step through the drifts. Don neighed, but stayed firmly planted.
“I said, ‘Go get on home!’” shouted Harold, finding an unknown source of strength. He struck Don’s rump. It would be foolish for them to stay there. The snow had covered Don’s legs. Don nickered to his master, yet would not move.
“You blame fool horse,” Harold said, his strength sagging, yet his heart soaring. He wanted to cry; he wanted to grab the dappled horse around his neck, but he grabbed Don’s tail and with barely a whisper said, “Let’s go home.”
The driving blizzard left him unable to see landmarks, but he trusted Don’s instincts. Don’s enormous body with dinner-platter feet cleared a path for Harold to follow behind.
But a horse goes faster than a man, and Harold couldn’t keep up.
“Go home, Boy!” he shouted against the winds, and let go. This time Don obeyed. In the driving winds, he likely didn’t notice that Harold no longer held onto his tail.
Yet as Don plowed ahead, he cleared a path. Harold still had an ounce of strength. What did he have to lose if he followed? He knew home was two miles away, but you never knew when storm might let up. And if the snow stopped, he would see the Gallatin Mountains and there he would find home.
But the snow kept swirling, and soon the path in the snow began to disappear. Which way was home? His head bent low, Harold persevered, but the path was gone. He might walk in a circle and not know it. Maybe he should accept his dire fate. But through the driving ice, ahead he could see a thick, gray mass. His heart skipped a beat. There stood Don.
“You waited for me, Boy! You waited! You blame fool of a horse!” he wanted to shout. Harold reached out and grabbed Don’s icy, snow covered tail.
“C’mon, boy. Let’s go home,” he mouthed silently. Don moved forward. Harold’s steps became automatic. His legs and arms were numb, but he moved forward. His heart pounded in rhythm with Don’s steps. But as he gasped for a breath, he lost contact with Don’s tail. The horse moved ahead without him. Harold couldn’t go on, yet a path in the snow lay before him. He trudged achingly forward.
In a little while the sound of sleigh bells alerted Inez. It was a sharp contrast to the winds. She had feared the worst had happened. She put down her fabric, imbedding the needle and thread. “C’mon, Barbara, we’ll get bundled up and surprise Pa at the barn,” she said.
They hummed a hymn as they pulled on boots and coats, and Inez tucked Barbara inside her mackinaw, and mother and child curled their faces together. They remembered the day the circus came to town and paraded down the main street. They pretended they were large, lumbering elephants marching to the barn.
As Inez cleared a spot to open the door, they could hear Buster’s urgent call. Inez thought another voice would greet them. Buster was alone. Barbara filled the tin can with grain and her mother lifted her to feed the big horse. They fed the cattle, pig, and chickens, as well.
Inez felt despair, but didn’t want to give up hope. An idea hit her. “Don will sure be hungry, when he gets back,” she said and Barbara ran again to the feed room to fill up the tin can. She walked into his stall and filled his bucket with grain, and Inez shook out a flake of hay.
On the way back to the house, they trumpeted to each other as momma and baby elephants. Barbara didn’t need to know how her mother’s heart sank deeper than their steps. Inez prayed silently, as she and Barbara warmed their fingers by the diminished coal fire.
“Pa’s going to be hungry too,” she said as she filled a black kettle with snow, and added beets, turnips and salt pork to her pot she placed on the hearth.
“Barbara, how about if we start a special quilt that will be for you someday. Let’s imagine it’s summer and you are a grown-up lady carrying a fancy parasol,” she said. Inez searched the cupboard for brown, butcher-block paper to draw a pattern.

Just as he felt that all he could do would be to lie down in the snow, Harold sensed a presence, like a wall, before him. He took a few more steps. There was Don, waiting for him, again.
“C’mon, boy. . . .” he said, barely in a whisper. Touching Don’s tale gave him strength. This horse was here for him. He wanted to shout. He wanted to cry. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to go home. His mind willed his feet to keep moving as horse and man fell into a rhythm together.
But again, Don’s pace was faster than Harold could manage behind the four-legged snowplow. “Go on home,” he gasped. If he stopped, he knew for certain he would die. His limbs tingled, no longer feeling cold. He kept his focus on his breath, and each step, as he bent his head against the winds. He nearly fell backwards as he bumped into a tree. But there couldn’t be a tree. No, it was Don.
“Let’s . . . go home,” he said as he shook ice from Don’s tale. That was Don’s signal to plod through drifts now belly high. Harold shuffled behind, feeling thankful for his faithful horse.
Time and time again, the rhythm of man and horse marked another mile to home. Then across a bed sheet of white pasture, he saw home. All he had to do was climb over the fence, and trudge on his own to the house that shone from a faint beacon of a kerosene lamp in the window.
But there was no opening for Don, his faithful horse. Don would know his way to the barn. All he had to do was to go a ways down the fence to the gate Harold opened we they left that morning. Don would go through the open gate and wait for Inez at the barn. So Harold dropped Don’s tail a final time.
“Go on home, Boy!” Howard said forcefully with renewed strength as he climbed the fence and turned to wave to Don. The winds had died down. A rosy glow of the sun setting in the west, beyond the house, beckoned to him. Harold could now taste the warm stew he was certain Inez had waiting for him. He swung his arms across his body to build momentum for each step that dug a path through the knee-high drifts. Nearly frozen, icicles hung from him his scarf he swung open the farm house door. “You’re home. You’re home,” Inez kept repeating over and over. Ignoring the melting ice, Barbara and her mom hugged him hard. Tipper jumped up and barked at his knees.
“I’m home,” Harold said hoarsely, his mouth dry despite the ice melting from his hair and face. He cradled the cup of coffee Inez handed him as he sat by the small fire. Inez quickly headed to the barn to greet Don. She expected him in the stall she had prepared. Buster called to her loudly. The other animals stirred, as the last gleams of light slanted into the ice-covered window. With great sadness, Inez returned to the house.
“Don isn’t in the barn,” she said with great, measured sadness. Harold was stunned. Don should have found his way to the barn from that short distance. After all, Don had led him the entire way. What could have happened?
“Inez, go and look out at the gate.” Inez, trembling, followed Harold’s short-cut path to the fence. The gate to the barn was wide open, yet there stood Don, standing in a drift that reached his belly. She stroked his face, cleaning it of snow and ice, and reached as far as she could around his neck.
“Harold is home. C’mon, Boy, you can go home, too.” And that was enough for Don to leave his post and head to the barn.
That night the family found enough pieces of coal and wood kindling to keep the fire burning. The next day the weather cleared, Mr. Olson’s grown son saw the abandoned wagon loaded with coal. He and his dad hitched up their team of horses and brought it to the Gavin family, “because that’s what Prairie folk do,” as Mr. Olson always said.
As the prairie families visited, Harold shared his tale of the big horse that saved his life on the prairie.
Harold lived to be 91 years-old. All of his days he would tell the story of Don, the devoted draft horse, who saved his life in a storm. When Barbara grew up, she too, told this story all of her days. She always repeated what her father said to her, “If you take care of your animals, they will take care of you. We’re here to take care of each other.”

revised story about Sylvan Park pool "Paradise"

Hey everyone,
I went down to the pool last weekend. I had written my article and shared with you all last meeting. Well, I spoke with the manager, John Masarik for about an hour and totally revised my article. I would like to know what you think if any would care to comment. Here it is: thanks guys, Megan

YOUNG LIVES ARE BUILT SPLASHING IN PARADISE
By Megan Vance
“Hurry up guys, we’re going to be late for swim practice!” I yelled to my youngsters. “Do you all have your goggles?”
This was the daily refrain in our house from June through late July. Towels were quickly stuffed into bags, and we jumped in our van and made the quick five minute trip way down the steep hill called Sylvan Avenue in Natrona Heights. With trucks roaring toward Freeport on Route 28 in the backdrop, we had now arrived in our own little piece of what the Sylvan “family” calls Paradise.
We were new to the area in the late 80’s when I inquired of neighbors where would be a good swim club to join. Someone luckily told us of Sylvan Park. As a young mother with two busy toddlers, I quickly signed us all up. Just like yesterday, I recall my toddlers sitting at the side of the shallow end, one hollering loudly and one delighting in the swimming lessons they were starting that summer.
Crisp and clear, Sylvan Park has been under the management of just one man who had a dream for the place he has poured his heart and soul into for the past 45 years. John Masarik was a physical education teacher in the local area and a decorated World War II veteran when he began managing the pool in the summer of 1965. July 4, 1965 was Sylvan’s opening day. Masarik had a dream that has already seen fruit: building young leaders that will serve their country and community. Now in his 80’s, retirement is not in his vocabulary.
I am seeing that dream recognized in my own family and other families I knew during our swim team days. Sylvan served us all well. One day, we enrolled our three children for the swim team. Swim team soon became the highlight of the year, the one sport all three of my children participated. My youngsters first learned to perfect their strokes under the loving guidance of Mrs. Jane Thimmons in Conditioning Class in the shallow end. Mrs. Thimmons, who herself learned to swim through Mr. Masarik at another pool before Sylvan was built, reciprocated the favor by sharing her expertise and guidance with little swimmer wannabes. No child was left behind, each was encouraged and given hugs under her tutelage.
If the children were not quite ready to swim for “points” with the team, no problem. There was always“Future Champs”, a special meet for those who were still developing their skills. My oldest child, who had been at first terrified of the water , beamed like he had won Olympic Gold when he received his ribbons at Future Champs. Other kind people from the pool worked hard to make sure this event was held each year and there was always a Dairy Queen ice cream bar for each participant in the end.
When my children did finally qualify to swim for points, that was the highlight of their existence during school years. We were so excited when the big finale for the season occurred: Alle-Kiski Swim League Championships. Out of the 45 years these championships have occurred, Sylvan has won 41 times. Who could forget the cheer the swimmers proudly hollered: “Sylvan Swim Team’s in a state of war, We’ll fight you on the beach, we’ll fight you on the shore! We’ll fight you til the fight is won, Sylvan swimming is #1!!”
Mr. Masarik sums up the philosophy of Sylvan in three simple words: passing the torch. Indeed, at the swimmers banquet, a “torch” is brought out and run through the swimmers lined up on both sides. It is his goal that no child would feel unimportant, that no one would feel unneeded. This gave my children confidence that has carried on in successful adult lives. It is part of a legacy: the older generation wishes to impart values to the next and if you look at the results you will see that it is working. The swimmers at Paradise owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Masarik and the haven he has created for area families. Come to a clean, relaxing community called Sylvan Park and you will see what I mean.