It's a small world writing contest!

So, how small a world is publishing?
I knew it was small, but this week I saw another example of just how small.

First, remember this blog post about Christi Corbett?

She'd been part of the Chum Bucket Brigade and I was glad she's gotten her book published.

Here's the funny thing. Christie got back from vacation to find her email box overflowing with notes from writers who'd heard about her here (yay, and thank you!)

When Christi wrote to thank me for the blog post, she reminded me she'd hosted the Fabulous Dan Krokos on her blog when his debut novel FALSE MEMORY came out. 


And Dan wrote to QueryShark because he's a fan of the inimitiable Jeff Somers.

Small world? Yes indeed.

Don't you think that calls for a writing contest? I do!

Usual rules:

1. Write a story using 100 words or fewer.

2. Include the following words in the story


Degrees
Chum
3
Bucket
Pants

3. You must include the entire word in correct letter order but it does not have to be the entire word:

Chummy but not Schlump
Pantsless but not phantoms

4. Contest opens on Saturday 8/17 at 10:00 am and closes Sunday 8/18 at 10:00am.  All times are Eastern Shark times.

5. Post your entry in the comment column of this blog post.  If you need a mulligan,  a do-over, delete your comment and post again. Only ONE entry per person.

6. Yes there is a prize but I don't know what it is yet. Probably pot luck (tell me what you like to read and I'll send you something amazing!)


7. All decisions are final, subject to whim and whimsy.  No whining allowed.

Questions? Tweet to me @Janet_Reid

Ready?
Set?
NOT YET.

Go! 

Oops, too late, contest closed.

best airport sign in quite some time!

Your single biggest asset on revisions?

Time.

I've been trying to post more regularly.  One strategy is writing posts ahead of time. On those prepared posts, I re-read before publishing just to see if I missed anything.

I'm amazed how often I see things that should come out, or be revised, even though I work pretty hard to make posts as concise as possible when I wrote it. write them.

What does this mean for you?

When you plan your writing time, include time to let the project sit.

If you plan to be done done done with your novel on M/D/2013, count forward 7 days, then read it one last time on M/D+7/2013.  If you don't find at least one change you missed, I'll eat my hat.

Here's the version I wrote a couple days ago:

Time.

I've tried to post more regularly here.  One helpful strategy is writing posts ahead of time. When I do that, I go back and look at the post before it goes up just to see if I missed anything.

I'm amazed at how often I see things that should come out even though I worked pretty hard to make the post as concise as possible when I wrote it.

What does this mean for you?

When you plan your writing time, include time to let the project sit.

If you plan to be done done done with your novel on M/D/2013, count forward 7 days, then read it one last time on M/D+7/2013.  If you don't find at least one change you missed, I'll eat my hat.



----

The third revision is marked by strikeouts in the top text.

The Shoe Test

I've been reading manuscripts for the last few days and a recurring foible is what  I now call "the shoe test."

Example: "She wore six-inch slingbacks on her feet."

Where else is she going to wear them? Her head?

Go through your manuscript sentence by sentence to make sure you're not "wearing shoes on your feet." You might be delightfully surprised by how much more lean and elegant your prose is.

Other examples:

Adrenaline coursed through her veins (I'm glad it wasn't coursing out her ears)
Adrenaline coursed through her veins

She drove her car to the office (probably because her broom was in the shop)
She drove her car to the office


Take out every word you don't need.

Sometimes you may need to say she drove her car, or adrenaline coursed through her veins, but that should be something you choose to put in, not the default way you write.

[One of the best places to practice this kind of spare writing is twitter. With only 140 characters, you have to be lean. Don't "cheat" with abbreviations--pare down!]

And give yourself a break on this:  everyone everyone everyone over-writes on the initial draft. That's why God invented revisions.  Don't kick yourself for writing like this; save the kicking for not finding it on the second pass.

Need help with kicking? Here ya go:

Rockettes in 1925!

A Dangerous Fiction writing contest results

Was it the book itself that aroused you all to such amazing entries? Or practice? Or you've all made pacts with the funny little dude down at the crossroads?

Whatever the reason, this contest produced more amazing entries than any of the others. In fact, I had to invent a whole new category for two of the entries.

Herewith the results:

Special recognition for a comment that says EXACTLY what I thought too!

Sheila JG 1:04pm

Okay, I’ve read the book, so I’m recusing myself from the competition. I just wanted to express my opinion about what happens at the end of chapter 6, because it’s evil. All writers will agree with me, I’m sure."

Special recognition for entries that had names that just cracked me up
R. T. Freeman 1:54pm

Janice Sharkowitz-Chumsky

JaredNGarrett 2:07pm

Spade Rogaine by

dylan 3:53pm

Curtis C. Flush (I know, I know, it's a terrible pun, but I laughed!)

Special recogniton for entries that had a great turn of phrase:
lanceschaubert.org 11:26am

"framed stories by fictioneers" and "a tart little model-to-be with slush brains."

R L Raymond 11:48am

"forgiveness could be paid back in spades."

Janet Fogg 11:48am

"Sleet pecked at his head,"

Steven 12:26pm

"A doorstop of zom-rom-com manuscripts"

dylan 3:53pm

"slurpeed remains"

Special recognition for entries that had a wonderful line:
Lynn Guelzow 10:14am

"“Here it is, page 262 of volume “S” of the Unabridged Fictionary."

Carolynnwith2Ns 10:29am

"But first, imagine what it’s like to love your son so much you want to watch him die."

Ruthy 10:33am

"My existence lingers like snowman slush."

William Coleman 11:06am

"I had just slushed through the 262 page abyss of clichés and run on sentences"

 Madeline Mora-Summonate 5:17pm

stains tell no tales, fiction or otherwise.

Lance 7:28pm

"Every third Thursday, dressed in her sharkskin body suit, she dived into the slush."

BP 10:16pm

She warps him with a glance beneath tender, mascara-laden boughs.

Special recognition for entries that were not quite a story but still enticing:

French sojourn 10:11am

JD Paradise 10:17am

Claire Gregory 10:24am

Calorie Bombshell 12:27pm

CJKeats 5:28pm

Special recognition  for entries that scared my sox off:

Delphine Roussel 6:22pm

Special recognition for entries that cracked me up completely

Kitty 10:14 am

Terri Lynn Coop 11:31am

Just Jan 1:32pm

Steve Forti 6:29pm

Herewith the finalists:

(1) donnaeverhart.com 10:23am

The dog days of summer saw Dylan slurping a Slushy while sitting next to a boy named Spade. .
He said, “Heard your mom’s still writing a book.”
Spade sighed, “Yeah.”
“Fiction?”
“True story.”
“How many rejections she had?”
“262.”
“Huh, must not be any good. What’s it about?”
Spade stared into the distance, “Can’t tell, I’d have to kill you.”
Dylan snorted, “Yeah right.”
Spade reached under the park bench, pulling out a small gardening tool, the metal end gleaming.
Dylan’s eyes widened, “Hey, what’s that for?”
Spade inched closer, “The book’s about me, it needs a new chapter.”

(2) William Coleman 11:06am

“What do you think?”
I had just slushed through the 262 page abyss of clichés and run on sentences. Focusing on the positive, I say, “Well the description of her screams made my spine tingle. And I could almost hear the spade scooping the dirt into the grave.”
“I knew you would appreciate that,” he smiles.
“I thought you were going to write fiction.”
“I figured you might pay more for this.”
“Is that so?” I lift the hammer and swing. Leaning close to him as his light fades, I say, “You should always be sure to know your audience.”

(3) Jo Bourne 11:12am

262 Elm Street. 'Spade/Tuttle' on the mailbox. Two names, the way they did it when some bitch kept the fiction she wasn't married.

He kicked through slush, up an unshovelled walk, hearing dogs bark. Hearing bang-bang death on TV sets down the street. The sound of right-thinking, smug suburbia.

The woman who answered the door was entirely naked.

He said, "Lean over, bitch, and take it."
She did. At the wall. On the floor. On the table.

Afterwards, she said, "How was your day, dear?"
He said, "Can't complain."

(4) Writer of Wrongs 11:23 am (I just love that name!)

“Keep digging,” I said.

His spade was no match for my gun, even so, I kept my distance. Brooks had barely dented the slush-covered ground--not that he had incentive to finish.

Twenty-one years wearing a badge. 262 months of “just the facts.” Time for a change. Crime fighter to crime writer. Fiction had to be easier. I’d use tonight’s research in my novel. Rogue cop. Cliched?

I heard the whiffle of air a whisper too late. The garrote tightened in an unexpected twist.

Brooks straightened, his expression predatory, all gleaming teeth, no warmth. “Meet my accomplice, Janet.”

(5) k.kellie edwards 12:18pm

This tale is fiction, so I’ve heard (though some declare it fact).

The story goes, he was a quiet man and so he promised her a single rose for every time he spoke the words I love you.

The first was when he caught her silhouette against a moonlit sky.

The thirteenth time, she’d slipped in icy slush and burst out laughing.

The ninety-fourth, she traced her name across his fevered chest.

And every year, he promised to keep counting and she always laughed, and kissed him and proclaimed him daft.

Fifty years.

A thousand tears.

One spade.

262 roses.

(6) Sisi 12:35pm

That TV fella showed up a coupla days after I got out, wantin’ to make a show out of my life called Queen of Spades. Reality fiction, he called it, which don’t even make sense. I told him I wasn't interested but he acted like he didn’t hear me. He paid for my diet cola slushie at GoMart and said he wouldn’t give up and could he come with me, so I told him sure and he followed me out Rt. 262. It was right easy buryin’ two bodies in one grave, though I ought not be braggin’ about that.

(7) Amy Schaefer 4:01pm

Where was Grandpa? I looked out the window – there he was, using a spade to chip at the frozen slush on the sidewalk next door.

He stopped suddenly, clutching his back. I stuffed my feet into boots and ran outside.

“Grandpa! Are you okay?”

He grunted something I couldn’t hear. “What?”

“Get out of here, boy!” he hissed. “I hooked Louise!”

Mrs Martin’s front door flew open and the widow hurried out. I ducked behind a tree. “Walter! Your back! And shovelling my walk, too.”

Grandpa winked at me as they entered her house. Seduction fiction #262 was a success.

(8) Sarah 4:51pm

We warned them about mountaintop winters. They thought we were exaggerating, feeding funny fictions to the rich newbies.

Four back-to-back blizzards later, I drove up to check on them. Behind their $2,620,000 'cabin', I found Mrs. Redding shoveling slush with a spade. Red-faced and sweating in her snow bunny ski wear, she didn’t hear me until I was right on top of her.

“Helen, you need a-?” I started. I stopped at the sight of a limp, masculine hand protruding obscenely from the icy mud.

She looked me over, and smiled. “Nick,” she purred. “Help would be lovely.”

(9) Naomi 7:49pm

The shuffle, the deal. I sip my slushy margarita.

Tommy's down $2,620,000. If he loses this pot, Jake wins-- me.

Tommy chases a flush through the flop and the turn.

Look at no one, I remind myself. Think of nothing.

"Here comes the river," I hear.

Two of hearts, not the spade Tommy needed.

Jake thinks he has won, taken Tommy's wife at the poker table.

But Tommy's played a long game, this marriage a fiction created for just such a moment.

Tomorrow Jake will be dead. I'll be home in Odessa trying to forget both these horrible brothers.

(10) Madseasongirl 9:19pm

Sal plunged the spade into the ground, whistling while he worked. The snow had long since turned to slush, like a thousand dust moths scattered at his feet.

It's only a story, they'd said. A work of fiction.

Fiction was the foundation of fact. Didn't they know?

His fingers were frozen claws around the shovel, but he didn't stop. He'd prove them wrong. All 262 of the fools who had mocked him, who'd laughed and told him he was crazy.

His heart sped up and he smiled, digging faster.

Sal would make it to China, even if it killed him.

Sometimes when I'm attacking the incoming queries,  merrily reading along something comes along that just takes my breath away.  Sometimes it's for a project I never would have thought I'd want to read but the writing just grabs me and doesn't let go.

That's what happened here.

In fact, I needed a whole new category for this entry:

Holy fuckamoli

Richard Stillman Prime 11:43pm

I wash the floor 262 times. I wash the spade 262 times. I wash myself 262 times. I hear him, though. I hear his blood calling out to me from the floor, and he tasks me – he tasks me, and I am God. It was the spade or the hammer but I am God and He is a gardener and I am a gardener and this isn't fiction and he is slush now and still, still: he tasks me. He is slush and he tasks me and I am God and my punishment is more than I can bear.

And then, just to show not tell that God has a great sense of ironic humor, it happened again:

Lenny Liang 2:51am

I was an "untouchable" but never quite fit in. I was odd. They were even.

Besides 2, I was the smallest one, a single digit runt. They all bullied me, though none more so than 262.

He often said, "Little 5, sum my parts. I'm still twice the number you are."

His words were like a spade to the heart, a heart he plucked and discarded in the miry slush. He made self-esteem a fictional dream.

But then I learned that I was "prime" and became a celebrity.

And 262? He's languishing in Wisconsin.

He can go divide himself.
-----


There's no way to choose between these two entries. Both are brilliant and as different from each other as any entry can be.

Thus, there are two winners:

Richard Stillman Prime 11:43pm

 Lenny Liang 2:51am

and if anyone finds my sox, I wouldn't mind getting them back.


Richard, Lenny, if you'll each send me your mailing address, I'll send you a copy of Barbara Rogan's A DANGEROUS FICTION.  If you've already got a copy, we can find something else.

Congratulations to the winners, and the finalists and those receiving kudos! Thanks to all who entered. This was a very strong field.  I enjoyed reading these entries a lot!

The Dangerous Fiction Writing contest

I couldn't resist  a book with a literary agent protagonist.  Barbara Rogan's A DANGEROUS FICTION started as lunch reading.  Got home and could NOT stop (except for brief moments to catch my breath!) until I finished reading at midnight.

When I tell you one of the plot points is my worst fear, you'll know that the only thing to do now is have a writing contest with the book as a prize.

The usual rules:

1. Write a story using 100 words or fewer

2. Use these words in the story:


fiction
slush
spade
hear
262

The word must be used in whole, but it does not have to be the whole of the word.

fictionalize but not friction
shear but not heather

New rule after the last contest: no hyphens in the prompt word to make it something else.
 not he-are and really  not he-aren't!

3. Post your entry in the comments section of this blog post.

4. If you need a mulligan, a do-over, delete your entry and post again.  Only ONE entry (the latest
date stamp) will be considered.

5. All judging is subjective, frequently whimsical and cantankerous.

6. Contest opens on Saturday August 10 at 9am, and closes Sunday August11 at 9am.
All dates and times are Eastern Shark time.

Ready?
Set?

NOT YET!

Enter now!

ooops too late!
Contest closed at 9am Eastern Shark Time (8/11)

Hurray!

I love publishing success stories, don't you?

I particularly love the ones that arrive in my mailbox with some kind words for this blog, Chum Bucket, or QueryShark!



Thus it was that Christi Corbett made my day with this:

 During the 13 years it took me to go from initial idea to contract I searched for all the publishing information I could find, which is why I'm a long-time follower of your blog. I sincerely appreciate you sharing your knowledge through your posts, the Chum Bucket, and QueryShark. Thanks to your feedback, I knew it was finally time to quit fiddling with the query and go for it.

I got 55 rejections before I queried Astraea Press, and then five more after I signed the contract, two more the week before it released, another on release day, and then another the day it hit #1 on the "Hot New Releases in Westerns".

It took so long because I had so much to learn, but I never gave up on my dream. Here's a link to "My Not So Glamorous Story of How I Got My Book Deal".  

I love the part where Christi holds a yard sale to fund her trip to a writer's conference.  Talk about tenacity!


I skedaddled over to Astreaea Press to buy the book.

For the love of godiva, post your email address!

In this most recent writing contest there were at least three entries that made me want to write to the authors to give them a heads up why their entry wasn't picked.

I clicked on their blog ID to get to their info page, and voila: NO CONTACT INFO. I persevered in some cases to their websites: NO CONTACT INFO.

If you're a writer of ANY kind --published, unpublished, hoping to be published, represented, agent stalking, DEAD---You Must Be Reachable.

I don't care how you do it: list an email address, have an email link, whatever, but make sure I can reach you in a NOT Public Way. That means: not Twitter, not Facebook.

The reason it needs to be email and not Twitter/Facebook is that I'm not going to say something to you in public about your entry.  I don't know you, and you don't know me.  We haven't gotten past the requirement to be polite to each other!

Click on your info page NOW.
No contact info?
FIX IT.

Who knows, that might be a requirement to win the next contest! (ok, it won't but honestly, don't you want to hear from me if I have info for you??)

A.S. King writing contest-deadline is 8/18

And the prize is an arc of her new book.

Trust me, you WANT that.

I love this contest (and you will no doubt see why):

Want to win an ARC of REALITY BOY? All you have to do is follow 3 little rules, and you're in. Go crazy. You have two whole weeks. 

CHALLENGE:

1. Your story MUST start with this sentence: Janet was early. **
2. Your story MUST end with this sentence: Of course, she didn't.
3. Your story must be 100 words or less.

DEADLINE: Sunday August 18th at 11:59PM EST
PRIZE: A signed Advance Reader Copy (ARC) of REALITY BOY.
Please leave your entry in the comment area of this blog and don't forget your email address! 

Winner chosen by three anonymous judges, a cosmic spider and a magic 8 ball and will be announced a few days after that deadline. 

Of course I entered!***  I'd be crazeeeee not to. You would be too!



 ****

Janet was early, but the authors had already gathered.  Pine resin torches, vats of boiling oil, a professional cantor to lead the chanting.  They'd cast lots to select the lucky loser. Muttering "This is too Shirley Jackson" a writer with library pallor and thesaurus stain tattoos stepped forward.

"I insist you read my fictional novel!"

Janet wanted to boil him in oil, to boil them all in oil. Instead, she waylaid the cantor, hissed instructions, mounted her broom.

She could have regretted the riot caused when "Query Barbara Poelle for fictional novels" diverted the mob.

Of course, she didn't.

I Spy a Writing Contest results!

 Honest to Murgatroyd, you guys really amped it up this time. Collectively, these entries were probably the best we've had so far.   Congrats to all the entrants for making this a damn difficult choice!

Special recognition for a phrase that we really need to use more often:

"the boob tube of soiled love"

AndThatsWhyImSingle.com 9:31am

Special recognition for a phrase the describes a lot of things very well:

"We’re about to be mauled at the Freak Bowl."

shtrum 10:46am

Special recognition for a phrase that is both perfect and gross at the same time:

"The fart of her dying toothpaste tube jolts me awake"

Jared X 7:46am

Special recognition for entries with a great line or lines:

"Finest Gal sailed towards the dance, wearing nothing save her threadbare jib"

french sojourn 9:31am

"The grandfather clock that once lived in the parlour strikes eight. The notes bounce away over a sea of snoring bodies, over displaced belongings, tumbling off the platform edge and into the river of darkness that is the Tube."

Claire Gregory 10:53am

"Life was nicely blurred around the edges, like a hipster picture on Instagram."

Julie O'Connell 6:26pm

"An hour later, he woke up inside the arteries of the Jolly Green Giant."

Naomi 10:26pm

Special recognition for a great entry with a fatal flaw

donnaeverhart.com

Isabel awoke on the Tube. The canned voice came over the speaker “Mind the gap,” as the train pulled in to the station. Another blackout, it seemed. She tried to recall where she’d been. Eating a blitz, with Peter.
“Hey, you okay?”
She gazed at the young man staring at her, his eyes blue, just like Peter’s. She glanced away, looking down instead. In her hand she clutched an empty bottle. It once held the finest whiskey. That’s right, she’d found a bar. It had been happy hour.
She asked him, “Why? Why would you care?”
“Mom. It’s me, Peter.”

(you eat blintzes not blitzs---this entry would have been a finalist but for that)

Suzanne 12:23pm

"Tu-be or not tu-be, zat is ze question, no?" the wizened shopkeeper asked, handing Charlotte the hourglass.

"I want to be the finest spy in the world," Charlotte replied. "I'll be my own blitzkrieg."

The sand in the hourglass sparkled alluringly. A sudden gust of wind rustled through the blackout curtains.

"Turn ze hourglass twice, mademoiselle," the shopkeeper said.

Charlotte turned the heavy hourglass. A flash of light filled the dim room. The hourglass slipped, shattering on the floor.

As she bent down to examine the pieces, she immediately noticed her lack of arms, legs and body.

“Invisibility!” she cried.

I'm still not sure if tu-be qualifies as use of the word tube (let me know what you think in the comments column) but we had so many really good entries this time, I just decided this would

be in the heartbreaker category for now. 

Special recognition for entries that weren't quite stories, but were enticing or compelling or both!

CJKeats 1:09pm

Calorie Bombshell 6:07pm

JD Paradise 8:13pm

Naomi 10:26pm

Ashley Whitt 11:27pm

Lance 12:41am

Not quite a story, but the writing, oh yes, the writing! YUM!

Writer of Wrongs 8:24am and honestly, what a great nom de plum too!

Not a story, but absolutely stunning, and if this isn't the start of a high wire suspense novel, I don't know what is:

Terri Lynn Coop 1:47am

Special recognition for sentences with great rhythm

 Carolynnwith2Ns 2:01pm

I did not want to give birth on the street during the blitz.

I did not want my baby born in a world of madness.

I did not want my child’s first breath to be of sulfur and the dust of humans laid waste.

And then, in the stillness of St. James, his cry was heard

If I were Tim Gunn on Project Runway, and this was the workroom review, I'd have said "change this to first person POV"

Sheila JG 8:42am

Herewith the finalists:

(1) Joel Freiburger 9:03am

I'd already served in a war when I started moving art through the London blackouts of '39. Uniformed and barking the ARP slogans, I banged about their flats, herded the gentry to closets and cupboards, nabbed their finest paintings. Growled past the constables of a hooded city, angled down the hidden stairs inside Bob's Goodtime Blues. American, Bob was, whereabouts unknown, nominal boss of an earthen intestine cut beneath the Twopenny Tube – empty during the Blitz, when the music ceased. Humid storage fixed at one hour: midnight.

Come bleary morn I’d ransom the art back to the owners.

(2) Curtis Moser 9:06am

The surgery would take an hour. A deep breath, the encroaching darkness, an anesthesia-induced dream, and then a return to consciousness with the finest face money could buy.

Antonio thought the scars from the aerial blitz would scare Maria away. She had stayed, however—had assured him that she wasn’t with him just for his money. But the revulsion he saw in her eyes when she looked at him told a different story.

So he had decided without her. He’d blackout, wake up, and be broke but beautiful. Wouldn’t she be surprised?

He smiled as the doctor fitted the tube.

(3) Michael Seese 9:10am

April didn’t want to leave. This had been a great life. The finest one yet.

“I wish I understood this,” Jeff said.

She wanted to explain. But people from her world had trouble comprehending space-time travel.

“I have to go,” she said. “Our enemies have started an all-out blitz. It’s up to me. I’m the only one who can save my people from extinction.”

A portal opened.

“I thought you said we had an hour.”

“They’re unpredictable. I love you.”

“Please come back.”

“I’ll try.”

She entered. Just before the blackout, April heard Jeff’s voice.

“She’s in. Destroy the tube.”

(4) Sam Bohrman 10:22am

A Drive-through Confession

Jim stuffed their twin paychecks from Poplar’s Finest Elementary into the plastic tube just as the teller started gabbing. “This could take an hour,” he said to his wife.

Shannon responded, “What do think of Blitz? For a boy’s name.”

“Uh ...”

“It’d madke him sound like a quarterback.”

“Honey, I’m 120 pounds.”

“Genetics are funny.”

“I know you didn’t blackout during biology.”

She hugged her belly and opened her mouth to say something, but the words seemed to lodge in her throat like a … and it hit him. … Boris, the new Russian gym teacher.

(5) Amy Schaefer 3:37pm

I stumbled along the frozen path. Mother nudged me onwards, hours becoming days as we fled the cacophony of bloody death. Exhausted, sick on rotten tubers – still everyone limped on. The news blackout was meaningless; the war filled our world.

“Halt!”

The nightmare shapes of the Easter 101st Rutting Finest leapt from the shadows. I shrank back from their infamous pink-and-purple Egg eyepatches. Had they really each sacrificed an eye to the Bunny?

Blitzen stepped forward. “There’s no ransom here. Santa won’t bargain.”

“The Pole fell two days ago.” The three-stripe bunny flashed sharpened teeth. “And we’re having venison tonight.”

(5) Nate Wilson 11:05pm

It was supposed to last a day, maybe two. To divert electricity to the hospital till the heat wave broke. So they could attend to all the wounded.

Lizzie cleared out the fridge. Spent her days at the makeshift shelters.

As usual, Martin said it didn't concern him. Didn't know any of 'em. He grabbed their finest bottle of scotch--the one she'd been saving--and spent the entire blackout floating in an inner tube blitzed out of his mind.

He never saw her drop the downed power line into the pool.

Three hours later, the power came back on.

This was a very difficult choice.  Kudos to all the entrants, and particularly those who used the prompt words in unexpected and delightful ways.

The winner is: Amy Schaefer 3:37pm


Amy drop me a line with your email address and I'll send you your prize.  If you already own Mr. Churchill's Secretary and/or Princess Elizabeth's Spy, we'll find other books for you.


Next contest announcement is Friday August 9th!

I spy a writing contest!

I've enjoyed the first two books in Susan Elia Macneal's series so it's time to have a writing contest and give them to the lucky winner as the prize (Mr. Churchill's Secretary and Princess Elizabeth's Spy!)

The usual rules:

1. Write a story using 100 words or fewer

2. Use these words in the story:


blitz
tube
blackout
finest
hour

The word must be used in whole, but it does not have to be the whole of the word.

Hour/hourly is fine
blackout/blacked-out is not

3. Post your entry in the comments section of this blog post.

4. If you need a mulligan, a do-over, delete your entry and post again.  Only ONE entry (the latest
date stamp) will be considered.

5. All judging is subjective and frequently whimsical and moody.

6. Contest opens on Saturday August 3 at 9am, and closes Sunday August 4 at 9am.
All dates and times are Eastern Shark time.

Ready?
Set?

NOT YET!

ENTER!

oops, sorry, too late. Contest closed!

An example of spare, elegant writing

Sometime after 10:30 on a Thursday morning in May, after he'd had his cup of coffee, Dick Trickle snuck out of the house. His wife didn't see him go. He eased his 20-year-old Ford pickup out on the road and headed toward Boger City, N.C., 10 minutes away. 

He drove down Highway 150, a two-lane road that cuts through farm fields and stands of trees and humble country homes that dot the Piedmont west of Charlotte, just outside the reach of its suburban sprawl. Trickle pulled into a graveyard across the street from a Citgo station. He drove around to the back. It was sunny. The wind blew gently from the west. Just after noon, he dialed 911. The dispatcher asked for his address.

"Uh, the Forest Lawn, uh, Cemetery on 150," he said, his voice calm. The dispatcher asked for his name. He didn't give it.

"On the backside of it, on the back by a ‘93 pickup, there's gonna be a dead body," he said.

"OK," the woman said, deadpan.

"Suicide," he said. "Suicide."

"Are you there?"

"I'm the one."

"OK, listen to me, sir, listen to me."

"Yes, it'll be 150, Forest Lawn Cemetery, in the back by a Ford pickup."

"OK, sir, sir, let me get some help to you."

Click.

This is a great example of elegant writing.  Lean as hell, and evokes such a swell of emotion a reader is compelled to read more.

Here's the rest of the article: Elegy of a Race Car Driver  (thanks to the Fabulous Steve Ulfelder for this one)

Twice is nice Alafair Burke writing contest results!

Some terrific entries on this contest!

Special recognition for a great line:

Fuckin’ Jersey. You can kiss your Bensonhurst self-respect goodbye and say hello to double-taxes.

Beta Shy 9:27am

Other assassins would call him fussy.

Lance 12:22pm

I would never walk in that cemetery again, and I would not tell my mother, how I came upon my father, weeping for another women and a future lost to circumstance.

Carolynnwith2ns 9:42am

Special recognition for delicious word play!

Her favorite flower was a lily; the only flour I liked was on fried chicken.

Danny Konczynski 7:29am

Special recognition for entries that were about LONG GONE!

Curt David 11:55am

french sojourn 4:32pm

Special recognition for entries that weren't quite stories but were memorable:

donnaeverhart.com 9:05am

Terri Lynn Coop 1:17am

And here are the finalists:

(1) Colin Smith 10:24am

I'm so sleepy, the bird crap on my lily pad is the double of a painting in a New Jersey art gallery—the one where I met the girl who changed me. How was I to know she was a witch? Now I dread French accents and the smell of garlic.

My stomach lurches as I'm whipped up in a small hand.

"Put that down!" a man says, and the hand does, but not before planting a kiss on my head.

"That’s my princess," I hear the voice say before I drop below the water's surface.

I can't breathe...

(2) Sheila JG 10:39am

Superstition is an art form for some athletes, their pre-race routines a flowing work of intricate creativity meant to evoke confidence. Lily was no different. As she approached the starting line she greeted each hurdle in turn.

The moves were always the same. Double kiss the medallion. Tuck it under the jersey. Three jumps in the air. Not two, not four. Caress the track surface; absorbing the texture, the firmness, even the subtle colors of it. Kiss it for luck.

And then the inevitable hand on her shoulder. “Ma’am, step away please.”

And finally, her son, “Mom, you’re embarrassing me again!”

(3) Steven 11:18am

Another double deadlock on I-277. Exiting my steel and glass tomb, I amble through the apocalyptic scene. Ignoring the pain of arthritic knees, I follow the jersey barrier to the familiar spot that had claimed two souls and one body years ago.
Red beacons sear. Uniformed men toil to free a teen girl from a flaming Accord. I pray their skills have improved, but they scurry away, heads downcast.
Then I see her.
My heart pauses.
My Lily reaches in and effortlessly completes the task the strapping men could not.
Turning briefly, she blows a final kiss before the explosion.

(4) Joseph 9:10pm

DOUBLE OR NOTHING
Carmen maneuvered the scope to her right eye. She tried to squint, but her face refused to cooperate.

"Damn Botox," she grunted, blinking severely. "Damn doctor."

"You won't feel a thing," he'd said. "Just a pinch and a kiss."

'I'll show him a pinch and a kiss,' she thought. 'Then we'll see who's the real artist.'

She peered into the scope again. The target slouched on the sofa in a striped jersey. There was a lily over his left breast. A least, she thought it was a lily. Shrugging, she closed her eyes and pulled the trigger.

'One down...'

(5) Calorie Bombshell 9:45pm

“All Chinese girls are named Lily.”

“No, they’re not.” My words echo numb from years of oxycodone and vodka doubles straight up. “Some are named Pearl. Anyway, what difference does it make?”

“Just got me thinking about our little Emma….”

“Don’t think.” The duffle bag beside me stirs. “Just drive.” I blink away the smoke from his cigarette. “Turn left on Jersey Street. They should be waiting for us outside.”

“With cash?”

“Yeah, enough until the next time.”

“Maybe we could keep it. Raise her.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” I lie, then air kiss little Emma on her sleeping forehead.

(6) Michael Seese 9:10am

Art handed his wife a glass.

“This is Bordeaux. Do you remember the first time we had it?”

“No,” Lily said.

“Paris. On our honeymoon. That was some week. Not bad for a couple of Jersey kids. Do you remember it?”

“No.”

“Now this,” he said, placing chocolate in her palm, “is from Belgium. We went there, too. Remember?”

“No.”

“It’s OK, dear. I do.” He remembered it all. But, Alzheimer’s had not ravaged his brain.

“I miss you,” Art said. He kissed Lily, took her hand, double-checked to ensure the garage door was closed, and started the car.

And the winner in a VERY close contest is Michael Seese.  

Michael, drop me an email and we'll get your prize in the mail to you!

Congratulations to all the finalists and a big thank you to everyone who entered.  I really like seeing what you all do with the word prompts!

Next contest is this coming weekend!  

Telling it well

The writing adage "show not tell" is a good one but there are sometimes you really do just need some telling in a novel.

The trick is to tell it well.

How to do that?  Heck if I know! But I do know it when I see it:

As the days turned to weeks, everyone in London learned to live with it [the air raids by the Germans in 1940]. They learned to live with the dread and the fear, the sleepless nights and their churning, sour stomachs.  They learned to get up and run to the flimsy corrugated-steel Anderson shelter in the dark without tripping and falling.  They learned to live with the glow from fires burning in the East End and to live with the smell--the stench of thick, black smoke and an underlying scent of things best not discussed.  Many people, more than 170,000 by some accounts learned to live underground in at least eighty different Tube stations, sleeping on the floor, cooking over small grills and using buckets for toilets.

They became used to seeing the endless processions of people dressed in black, coming to or from the constant funerals and memorial services.

They learned to read the morning papers without weeping.

Notice the details. Notice the evocation of all the senses.  Notice the rhythm of these three paragraphs.

And that final line is just brilliant.

This is a great example of how to tell rather than show.

If you're a writer, no matter where you are in your career, you probably keep a reader's journal of some sort where you write down the lines, paragraphs and maybe even whole pages of work that gets it right.  I keep a journal like that.  These three paragraphs are the most recent entry.

And if you want to read the book they're from, I found it in the first book in the series by Susan Elia Macneal Mr Churchill's Secretary.

$0

I've given money to a number of crowd-sourced funding projects, many run by people I don't know, or know only tangentially.

Recently I got the worst announcement for a fundraising campaign I've ever seen:

please forgive the spam and be warned that if i have you in more than one of my email accounts, you'll get this more than once

i've launched an indiegogo campaign to raise money to cover my expenses while i transform the script into a book (sic)

If you want to raise money for anything, you need to actually believe in the value of what you're pitching. Calling it spam tells me you don't.

And then actually spamming me (by not vetting your mailing list for duplicates or even for appropriate audience) says you don't value me or my time either.

Ineffective.
Blocked as spam.
Blog post fodder.

Bingo, bango, gone-o

Writing contest results

It took me a while to read all the entries for the FULL RATCHET writing contest mostly cause you guys are starting to scare the bejeebers out of me! 

Special recognition for a great line or three:

Ha, Petrov’s sending Ratchet and Clank in their rusty chicken coop-de-ville

french sojourn 9:00am

The fullback in pink stilettos sashayed towards me.

Beta Shy 2:39pm

Like a balloon whipping around the room, my words spray all over, fast. I want to take them back. Better yet, the full month of December, cold and lonely even in his arms.

ami 12:36am

These entries weren't quite stories, but were wonderful:

Sarah W 9:24am

Sha'el, Princess of Pixies 9:32am

NotJana 9:50pm

Scott G 11:02pm

And here are the finalists:

k.kellie edwards 9:40am

“Drop that ratchet and turn around slowly, Coop.”
I let it drop. Turn around. “You might want to reconsider, M’am. Unclench your claw and drop that weapon.”
“Claw? That’s precious. Five seconds--start talking. One.”
“Wham.”
“What? Christ, never mind. Two.”
I take a full step back. Don’t want her all over my new suit.
She looks at me cock-eyed. “Three, Coop.”
“Bam.” I smile.
“Four. Nice knowing you, Cooper,” she says.
"Thank you, M'am."
She pulls the trigger.

I flick a bit of flesh off my cuff. Pick up the ratchet.
Time to get back to work.

Patrick DiOrio 9:58am

Monsters hide in closets, Timmy’s friend confided at school.

Now in the dark of night Timmy lay on his back in bed studying his closet door. Hannibal, his cat, curled beside him.

“We ain’t scared, Hannibal.”
Hannibal meowed softly, stirred.

The closet suddenly burst open. Six full feet of cooped up scaly monster lumbered through.

Timmy grabbed Hannibal, squeezed hard, screamed.

Hannibal sprang. Claws, fangs, flashing. Panic ratcheting—his bite, quick, surgical.

Blood filled Timmy’s mouth.

Monster, gone.

Hannibal running off as Timmy’s mom switched on the light.

“Timmy?”

Timmy mumbled.

“Speak up. What’s wrong, honey? Cat got your tongue?”

T.D. Hart 3:51pm

“Close your eyes, Evie,” the angel says. “I’m here.”

I turn my head. Blink away dripping blood. He’s dazzling, familiar. Blond hair. Dimples. Green eyes brimming with love and untold jokes.

The haze clears.

I’m on my back, alone. Moths dash against the fly-spotted bulb in our chicken coop.

Matty?

My mouth is full of cloth. I gag. Ratchet a breath.

In the doorway, a human monster. Blond hair trails from the claw of his hammer like blood-soaked algae.

“I’m here, babe.” The angel’s breath is like cool water on my cheek.

The hammer lifts, and I close my eyes.

William 4:18pm

“Digger!”

“Yeah Stokes?”

“Look over here. What do you see?”

“I see one of your little rat-claw hands waving at me from under the car.”

“I need the half-inch ratchet. So…I guess you’re still pissed about last night.”

“Because you told everybody I was full of crap about seeing Bigfoot? Nah. Here’s the wrench”

“Good. More cooperation and less harassment will get this job done by lunch.”

“Oh, I’ll be done by lunch alright.”

“That’s the spirit. Now back the car off the lube rack so I can crawl out of here.”

…

“Digger?”

…

“DIGGER!!”

JD Paradise 1:51am

My claws ratcheted, fists in memory.

"Coop." Her back to me, her shoulders hunched. "Ellis. It isn't about the girl."

"You're full of shit."

"It could have happened to anyone."

"It happened to me."

When she turned, tears silvered her porcelain cheeks, chrome gleaming beneath the skin. "They say you're afraid to touch me now."

"They're wrong," I lied.

"Still. They're pulling the plug."

"How long do we have?"

"Soon now."

I had no heart for this. But the need in her . . .

I opened a claw. Stroked her face. Microsensors shuttled and clicked.

The wounds trailed silver. Despite my care.

And the winner of FULL RATCHET by Mike Cooper is JD Paradise 1:51am.

I really liked this entry because the story is what isn't on the page.  That's a really hard trick to pull off but done well, as it is here, it's deeply satisfying to read.

Another great example of seeing what isn't on the page is the final scene between Stringer Bell and Avon Barksdale in the balcony scene of season three.

Congratulations JD Paradise.  Send me your mailing address and I'll send you your prize!

 

Twice Is Nice Writing Contest!

I bought a copy of LONG GONE by Alafair Burke last year at Murder by the Book in Houston while I was there for Stephanie Jaye Evans book launch.

It sat on my to-be-read pile until I desperately needed something I knew would be a delicious page turner (I tend to save my favorite authors for days when I REALLY need them!)   As it happens it was a day I was working from home:

(Ok, you got picts, never mind. . Let's just say then I was AT home.)  I went out for lunch, then stopped at the bodega, and when I got back LONG GONE was ...well...gone.  ARGH!

So I bought another copy.  This is not my usual practice.  I do this only if I absolutely positively cannot live without knowing how the book unfolds. 

I've now finished my second copy of LONG GONE and holy guacamole, this is a book you want to read.  I'm wise to Alafair's clever writer tricks (as a devoted fan I've been reading her for years) but she STILL managed to surprise me at the end.  I figured out one plot twist just as it was being revealed [aha! I was right!] but that was it.

So, let's celebrate with a writing contest!  Usual rules:

Write a story using 100 words or fewer.

Use these words in the story:

art
jersey
lily
double
kiss

Each word must appear in its entirety but does not have to be the entirety of the word.

So: Lilypad but not lillies, redouble but not redoubtable


Post your entry in the comments column of this blog post.

If you need a mulligan (a do-over) delete your comment and re-post.

One entry will be considered per person.

Contest opens Saturday 7/27 at 9am and closes Sunday 7/28 at 9am. All dates and times are Eastern Shark Time.

Prize is a copy of LONG GONE by Alafair Burke.  This is her first stand alone so you don't need to have read her previous seven books (although, now that I think about it, why haven't you???) If you already have a copy, we'll figure out something else.

Judging will entirely non-objective  and subject to whims of sharkly humor.  

And if you get the connection all the prompt words have to Alafair and the book, you can list that too.

Ready?
Set?

NOT YET! (contest opens at 9am on 9/27)

Write!  Contest now closed.

Books by blog readers!

Some time back I posted a call for mystery submissions by a small Oregon press. And whaddaya know but one of the blog readers responded and will now have her debut novel published.

Am I happy about this?  Why yes I am!

And because I know you will be too, here's the link to pre-order a copy of TIP OF A BONE!

Effective book covers

I'll be the first to admit that I don't know anything at all about how to make an outstanding book cover.  I know one when I see it but how to get it? That's the value of art departments. I think magic is involved somewhere along the way too.

There are good covers; there are amazing covers; there are godawful covers. Then there are EFFECTIVE covers: covers that make you reach for the book.

Here's an article about the various covers considered for THE SUMMER OF DEAD TOYS by Antonio Hill.  All of them are gorgeous. The question then becomes: which one is most effective.

Do you agree with the choice they made?

This belongs on your shelf!

I'm a devoted fan of Mystery Scene magazine. Oline Cogdill is a regular contributor; I like to read  the reviews (so I can stock up on good reading);  the road to publication stories are always interesting-- three of many reasons I'm a subscriber.

If you're a yet-to-be published writer, these road to publication stories can be truly inspirational. In the recent summer issue Susan Elia MacNeal talks about how long it took her to write the right book, and how many agents it took to get it to the right editor (two) and how many people contributed to getting it right (lots!)

"Her overnight success only took a dozen years, numerous rewrites, and countless rejections. And the help of a very lovable bear."

MacNeal writes a spy series set at the start of World War 2, one of my favorite time periods.  After reading the article I promptly bought the first two books in the series: Mr. Churchill's Secretary and Princess Elizabeth's Spy.

A three year subscription is $90  I consider it money well-spent.