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Thursday, March 26, 2020

Upon Learning the Splendid Craft of Writing by Jodi Lea Stewart


Beginning writers face many obstacles.

Recently, someone asked for advice in a writing group online. She wanted to write novels but said everything stays a draft because she feels too insecure to continue and doesn’t really know what she’s doing. 

Further, each time she writes something, it gets criticized, causing terrible self-doubt. She said she was afraid her dream of being a writer may remain a dream. She asked what she should do.

These are honest problems for beginners, and I would like to shed a little light from my own perspective.

Self-doubt
First of all, every writer goes through the self-doubt stage of wondering if she or he is truly qualified to call themselves a writer. I was still reluctant to do so after writing for university and local newspapers, becoming a western magazine columnist, and  after being made the managing editor/main writer for a Fortune 500 company newsletter.

Why is that?

I believe one reason for the self-doubt is that aspiring writers grow up having so much respect for writers, especially the ones who pen novels and books. We wonder if we have the talent and right to enter into their “sacred” world. Their world seems too full of fire pits and dragons for us to wander into it with our little fluffy *amateur* suits of armor.

To that, I say, be of good courage . . . if you write, you are a writer! Enjoy that fact, even if nothing you have written has ever been published. If you are working hard toward this goal, you are at least a struggling writer, which equals writer!

The best book I ever read on this subject and the one that actually gave me the personal confidence to pursue writing was Brenda Ueland’s book If You Want to Write. She was a journalist, editor, writer, and a teacher of writing and truly believed that anyone with the spark of desire to write can and will if they work at it. It’s an old book, and it’s full of wise and wonderful advice. If you don’t read it, you are missing something you won’t find anywhere else.

About criticism

When you are starting out, simply don’t cast your pearls before swine. In other words, write and then check your own writing. A really good way to do that and one that worked for me, provided you want to write fiction, is Self-Editing for Fiction Writers. If you don’t want to write fiction, there are multitudes of other books that can help you learn how to self-edit. Editing yourself is an important part of writing.

Another thing you must have in your life is someone who doesn’t mind giving sound craft advice and who is also successful at writing and editing. They most likely won’t be someone from your corral of friends, family, jealous acquaintances, general naysayers, or, unfortunately, fellow amateurs in your writing groups who usually have no idea what they are doing either. Sorry, but that’s the truth.

Don’t give others the opportunity to be your critic.

Take it away from them. They don’t get to see anything until you are way down the road and know you are turning out good copy. By then, it’s still not open for debate from other beginners because you have progressed and only work with professionals or other seasoned writers/editors.

So, now that you,

  1. believe you can be, and are, a writer,
  2. are going to stop letting other amateurs critique and belittle you,

How do you turn your dreams into reality?
Hint: It's not by being lazy.


  • More and more, I hear online beginning writers say that becoming a writer involves all-natural talent so no need to read a bunch of books or go sit in a classroom or attend a seminar.
  • Grammar rules? Pffft! Writing is art, so there are no rules.
  • Some actually believe that reading books nowadays is just a waste of time.
  • Others ask the craziest questions they should be researching themselves or not even asking in the first place, such as “How do you write a fiction novel?” and “What is it like to be in love? I want to write a romance novel.” (That one stupefied me).
  • Also, I hear them tell one another that watching YouTube videos about writing is the same as reading a book about it or learning firsthand from experts.

Really?

Let’s pause and consider a few examples.

1.      You smell that certain smell in your home. You jump online searching for an electrician to come immediately before your house burns down, don’t you? Do you know that electrician has more than likely gone through four years of apprenticeship including approximately 8,000 hours of on-the-job training and more than 500 hours of classroom training?

That’s a huge time investment, isn’t it?

2.     The lawyer you call when your drunk neighbor crashes into your car parked in your own driveway and who refuses to take responsibility for it has finished twelve years of lower learning, four years of undergraduate study followed by three years of law school and had to pass the Bar Exam, as well.

Nineteen years of schooling for the privilege of becoming a lawyer!

Whether becoming a carpenter or an airline pilot, a mechanic or a real estate agent, an artist or a writer . . . the bottom line is effort. Every profession demands extensive work and commitment.

Ever hear of the immersion programs for learning a new language? Yeah, it’s like that, but more extended. We learn specialties in life by immersing ourselves in them. Why would anyone think they can become a writer simply because they enjoy writing?

Enjoyment is a by-product of writing, that’s for darned sure, but it isn’t the same as training, practice, trial and error, tutelage, classes, and all that goes into learning a craft.

Say you desire to be an essayist. You already know you have the aptitude because you loved the essay part on all your tests in school while the majority of your classmates found it akin to facing Stephen King’s Pennywise lurking in the gutters. 

Is liking to write essays enough, though? No. You will need to read and study hundreds of essays to finetune your own essay writing. You will need advice, feedback, and constructive criticism.

That’s just one of so many examples.

How about writing novels?

Let me be blunt about this. If you are not willing to study endlessly, challenge yourself continually, read and write almost every day, accept constructive criticism gracefully with the idea of improving in the process, attend writing seminars, know how to spell and use grammar properly, and not be bull-headed when the publisher asks for your manuscript in a certain format whether you think it looks “unartful” or not, then forget about writing novels.

Since I’m a novelist, I warm to that particular subject. Here are my personal tips for beginning novelists:

Read meaningful books, lots of them, on the craft of writing. Go to seminars. Subscribe to the magazine, Writer's Digest. Read novels continually. Write continually. Take a journalism class to learn how to hook readers with your first line, first paragraph, and first page of EVERY chapter. That has helped me more than anything. Learn how to punctuate and spell, and know what current publishers prefer. Right now, for example, Chicago Style ellipses are the proper way to go. Study, and study more. 

In a nutshell . . . 

  • If you want to write, write!
  • If others are pulling you down into the stinky swamp with their unhelpful or mean criticisms, escape! Take yourself and your talents into the sunshine.
  • Lastly, realize that anything worth doing is worth the effort to learn and learn well. It won’t happen overnight. Nothing difficult and incredible does.

Precept upon precept, your knowledge will grow, and so will your confidence. Now, get out there and learn and study and write your head off!



***







Jodi Lea Stewart was born in Texas to an "Okie" mom and a Texan dad. Her younger years were spent in Texas and Oklahoma; hence, she knows all about biscuits and gravy, blackberry picking, chiggers, and snipe hunting. At the age of eight, she moved to a vast cattle ranch in the White Mountains of Arizona. As a teen, she left her studies at the University of Arizona in Tucson to move to San Francisco, where she learned about peace, love, and exactly what she DIDN'T want to do with her life. Since then, Jodi graduated summa cum laude with a BS in Business Management, raised three children, worked as an electro-mechanical drafter, penned humor columns for a college periodical, wrote regional western articles, and served as managing editor of a Fortune 500 corporate newsletter. 

She is the author of a contemporary trilogy set in the Navajo Nation featuring a Navajo protagonist, as well as two historical novels. Her most recent novels are Blackberry Road and The Accidental Road. She currently resides in Arizona with her husband, her delightful 90+-year-old mother, a crazy Standard poodle named Jazz, two rescue cats, and numerous gigantic, bossy houseplants.


1956 . . .

– Historical Fiction
It’s 1956, and teenager Kat and her mother escape an abusive situation only to stumble into the epicenter of crime peddlers invading Arizona and Nevada in the 1950s. Kat is a serious girl who buries herself in novels and movies and tries to be as inconspicuous as possible. Fading into the background is impossible, however, with a beautiful social butterfly of a mother who just happens to resemble Marilyn Monroe. It’s embarrassing, and the unwanted attention her mother garners could be the downfall of their plan to take Route 66 to the freedom of a new life.

Print and eBook available on Amazon.

1934 . . . 

– Historical Fiction
Trouble sneaks in one Oklahoma afternoon in 1934 like an oily twister. A beloved neighbor is murdered, and a single piece of evidence sends the sheriff to arrest a black man that a sharecropper’s daughter knows is innocent. Hauntingly terrifying sounds seeping from the woods lead Biddy into even deeper mysteries and despair and finally into the shocking truths of that fateful summer.

Audible, Print, and eBook available on Amazon, etc.









Monday, March 23, 2020

Wash your hands, Roger - Vintage Lava soap commercials by Kaye Spencer #classictelevision #firestarpress ##vintagecommercials #handwashing



In these crazy-scary days of global health concerns, we have a heightened awareness of the importance of washing our hands to prevent and/or slow down the spread of germs and viruses. Here is a brief history of a soap that was a staple in my house when I was growing up. Whether washing with it retarded the spread of disease is unconfirmed. This soap is

Lava Soap Whatever you’re into, Lava gets it out.



 Pertinent Lava soap facts:

  • heavy-duty hand cleaner
  • originally produced in soap bar form
  • developed by Waltke Company of St. Louis, Missouri in 1893
  • contains ground pumice (hence the name 'lava')
  • moisturizers added in recent years
  • original beige bar without moisturizers is no longer manufactured

  •  comes in green wrapper,red wrapper, and liquid


This advertisement from 1950 promises that washing with Lava soap prevents polio. Unfortunately, there was no documented, scientific proof of this. (More HERE)



Here are  our vintage television commercials extolling the advantages of washing with Lava.

Lava Hand Soap Commercial c. 1965




Lava Soap – “Wash Your Hands, Roger” (1960s or 1970s – conflicting sources information)




Lava Soap c. 1989


Lava Soap c. 1990


My dad and grandpa washed with Lava soap to remove dirt and grease. It worked well. What about in your house? Did your family use Lava soap?


Until next time,
Kaye Spencer


Stay in contact with Kaye—



Resources:
Lava soap information—
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lava_(soap)
Website: https://www.lavasoap.com/

Vintage Advertisement—
Pinterest. Etsy.com. Lava soap vintage ad c. 1950s. Accessed 2020.03-21. https://www.pinterest.com/pin/356136283019260162/

Vintage lava soap image—
Pinterest. rakukaren.com. Vintage Lava Soap image. Accessed 2020.03-21. https://www.pinterest.com/pin/349521621052204480/


Thursday, March 19, 2020

Fire Star Press: The Book Tour Episode Fourteen: Blake’s Folly, Nev...

Fire Star Press: The Book Tour Episode Fourteen: Blake’s Folly, Nev...: In the bus station café, the sign pinned to the wall behind the counter says: There’s Always a Reason to Smile, and an overhead televi...

The Book Tour Episode Fourteen: Blake’s Folly, Nevada



In the bus station café, the sign pinned to the wall behind the counter says: There’s Always a Reason to Smile, and an overhead television gives us the latest cheery news: four people shot at a post office, a few missing wives, a kidnapping. I remember the soldier back in Livingstone, the one who insisted that: “Aggression’s not part of the American way of life.” He’s clearly a man who can’t differentiate TV entertainment from reality.

A lumpy woman plays a screeching computer game at the far end of the station. Even though she’s way over there, she makes life hell for all of us. “She should be arrested for disturbance of the peace,” I say loudly. Fellow travelers send me martyred looks of commiseration, but on and on she plays, with zombie concentration.


To escape the noise, I take refuge outside where a fat man is chain-smoking. “They’re gonna see their mistake letting that happen in California,” he rasps, just as if we’ve been having a long conversation. “I hope the whole state will drop into the sea. I used to repair washing machines, but the taxes and the paperwork made making a living impossible. Now, I won’t even go there to visit an old buddy of mine. Last time I went to Bakersfield, I was so disgusted, I turned around and came back. A bunch of health freaks over there, all jogging. You can’t smoke in restaurants, okay, I can accept that. But you can’t even smoke on the street, or in your car in some places. In others, you have to keep the car windows closed so the smoke doesn’t get out. Soon they’ll forbid smoking in cars because when you open the door, the smoke escapes. They’re all nuts there. I hate everyone in the state.” His angry rose-colored jowls tremble.

Even though it means going out of my way, I’ve decided to travel via Nevada. Why? Because it’s the setting for the contemporary romance I’m working on, All About Charming Alice. I want to see Alice’s yellow house, I want to find the community of Blake’s Folly that I invented: This place was a rusty trailer, scrapyard, abandoned car, clapboard shack, sagging old house community: a dead end if there ever was one. This was nowhere. This was the end of the line, socially speaking. This was a has-been. This was home.


Outside the bus window is a beautiful but desolate countryside. I picture myself out there, strutting over dirt trails, making my way between the low lying beige hills like some quaint explorer, miraculously finding a desert Shangri La. Do I really think it’s possible? Perhaps, like soldier-boy, I’m also having a hard time differentiating fiction from reality. Not so many miles away is the area formerly called the Nevada Proving Grounds. There, on 1,360 square miles of desert and mountain terrain, 1,021 nuclear bombs were detonated between 1951, and 1992. The first one hundred atmospheric tests created mushroom-shaped clouds and bursts of light that could be seen in Las Vegas, 65 miles away, and they became a favored tourist attraction. Delighted guests partook of the lively sight from hotel windows, and sipped atomic themed cocktails. No one even thought about fallout, but it reached as far as southern Utah where there was an increase in birth defects, leukemia, lymphoma, thyroid cancer, breast cancer, melanoma, bone cancer, brain tumors, and gastrointestinal tract cancers.

The weather has changed quite abruptly. Rain has become sleet, and the wind has picked up. Back to winter again. I’ve picked out a town on the map, and I plan to leave the bus there, go exploring. I’m certain I’ll find an old hotel, something left over from the nineteen hundreds, a bit rickety, but original and inviting. I imagine a bar where country music whines, where old-timers share their secrets, and a square upstairs bedroom is very different from the usual sterile roadside accommodation.

“Gonna find yerself a cowboy?” the bus driver jokes.
A red-faced flirtatious craps dealer, sitting across the aisle from me, stares. “You just gonna get off the bus in the middle of nowhere? Go someplace where you don’t know anyone? Well, why not. Except it’s a weekday, so places will be quiet. It’s on weekends when all the people come crawling out of the woodwork and flock into the casinos to lose their money.”
“We’ve already lost a few passengers to the machines,’ says the driver. “Soon as they saw the first casino along the road, they couldn’t resist.”
Does he enjoy driving a bus?
“Oh sure. You see some funny things and some things that aren’t too funny. Like that driver who had his throat cut by a man sitting in the front seat. That’s why no one’s allowed to sit in the front seats anymore. Too many crazy people around.”
“You’ve been in dangerous situations like that?”
“Me? Nah. I’m the one in charge here. I keep my eye out, watching everyone. I go up and down the aisles from time to time, see what everyone’s getting up to. I went down to the back a little while ago, and one man had his shoes off. You could smell his feet all over the bus, but no one said anything. I told him to put the shoes back on. He said his feet were swelling, but I didn’t care. With me, everyone gets one chance. After that, I throw them out. If they don’t want to go, I call the cops. Another time, this woman with a ticket to Los Angeles gets off the bus at a stop somewhere along the road and says to me, ‘You stay right here until I come back.’ I told her, ‘lady, this is a short stop only. We’re leaving in five minutes,but she just stared at me and said: ‘You don’t go anywhere, you hear me?’ When she didn’t come back, I took her bags off the bus and drove on. The next time I came by there, the ticket agent told me she’d shown up an hour later with bags full of shopping. When she saw the bus was gone she began shouting, “Where’s he gone? I told him to wait.’”

We’re already pulling into town, the place I’ve been imagining, and it’s not at all as I pictured it: there’s no scrap and trailer desolation; there are no wooden houses. Just streets of ugly modern bungalows, miles of cheap motels, fast-food emporiums, and neon-lit casinos.
I grab my backpack, stare at all the un-loveliness, and my determination evaporates. I climb back onto the bus.
The driver chuckles. “What about that cowboy you’re looking for?”
“Well, maybe he’s looking for me, but I’m not looking for him.”

As usual, as soon as I make a decision, I regret it deeply. Outside the town, the countryside is beckoning again, but it’s too late.
“Vegas is more fun anyway, says the craps dealer. “Besides, it’s getting dark out there. Where you gonna walk at night?”

Maybe Vegas is more fun for some, but these flashing lights, funfair façades, are not my style. What am I doing here? I’ll have to walk miles before I find a cheap motel and quiet. Lurking restlessly on the street outside the bus station are doubtful-looking pseudo-humanoids, but an old toughie at the ticket counter gives me an address of a big hotel just four blocks away: “It’s nicer than any motel, and you get cheap rates during the week.”

And so, like any package tourist, I do end up in an impersonal bedroom on the eleventh floor. And, like a package tourist, I find myself standing in front of the restaurant buffet where vast quantities of rubber slices float in glue sauce, and vegetables look synthetic.

The slot machines whirr, beep, roar, and burp all around me, and I go to the bar, order a beer. A stocky man who is drinking heavily looks me over. Is it worth making an effort? He decides it is. “Me, I’ve seen a lot, I can tell you that. Flown planes, lived in the Yukon, driven all over the country, had businesses of my own. I could tell you things you wouldn’t believe. You married?
“No.”
“You want another beer?”
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
“No thanks, I’m fine? What’s that supposed to mean? You staying in this hotel or what?”
“Yes, I am.”
“So why not accept another beer? You’re not going nowhere. You know what your problem is? You got attitude. And grey hair. Why doancha go and dye it?”


 In the morning, I’m back in the cafeteria and at a loss. What do I want to eat here? The overhead television is spreading the good word: a burnt body found in a shopping cart, ten dead in a gang shoot out, three kidnapped children. Betty, the waitress comes over to me (yes, that’s her real name). She’s one of those string bean tall women with a good collection of wrinkles, a lot of lipstick, eye makeup, a whiskey voice, and an easy-going way of joking with everyone.
“You writing a journal? She jabs her chin in the direction of my notebook.
“Sort of.”
“Well, a girlfriend and me decided to write a book about restaurant etiquette, you know. It’s so funny what people say to you, like one guy asked for these yokeless cholesterol-free eggs, you know — they only come scrambled. And he said he wanted them over.” She bursts into a phlegmy peal of laughter. “Then another guy says he wants coffee with cream, and sugar, like I’m going to prepare it for him.” Again, she laughs and waits for my reaction — what sort of reaction? Sympathetic chortles or an indignant “tut-tut?” I do my best while trying to work it all out.


In a pawn shop, I look over an old camera and decide to buy it. Take photos of those hills I’m heading for when I finally leave this city behind. In comes a desperate-looking woman. She hands over a gold watch. “Just to tide me over a little.”
“Sure,” says the broker, all understanding.
But those hills are so far away, and there is the sprawl to negotiate in a rattling bus before I can reach them. I’ll get there, eventually.

And, finally, here I am, taking a track over a low rise. Scrub shivers in the bitter wind, and the only noise is that of dust scraping the stony surface. Plastic sacks, tin cans, a smashed barbecue, a television set, torn clothes, wrecked plastic toys, twisted metal decorate the scene, and all are studded with bullet holes. Over there, on the left, are a few bleached bones.
Is this really the place for an afternoon stroll? I think of serial killers and casual murderers, know I have no intention of being tonight’s news flash. And admit, finally, that a fictional town is exactly that.

More about my books and passionate life can be found at http://www.j-arleneculiner.com
and on my podcast at https://soundcloud.com/j-arlene-culiner

Sunday, March 15, 2020

WHEN A MYSTERY WRITER CAN’T FACE MURDER, by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer

Bank Robber Aiming at Security Camera, Cleveland, Ohio, March 8, 1975, on view at the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s exhibition “Crime Stories: Photography and Foul Play,”


Whether you write cozies, thrillers, police procedurals, or suspense, the plot of a mystery most often revolves around murder. Suspicious death is endlessly fascinating to our readers, and therefore to us as well. Grisly and graphic or gentle and off-stage, it’s people killing people that makes a good story. Right?

But what if murder suddenly comes too close to home? A while back I was working on a cozy mystery in which someone was murdered in a small, coastal town. Then it happened— a friend was killed near our beach house in Ocean Park Washington. Suddenly I couldn’t face the words I’d so callously scribbled on the page. Suddenly murder wasn’t fun anymore.

Thankfully I came out of it after some time and went on to write many more stories involving violent crime. But that experience taught me to be gentle. I will never know how my writing affects my readers. They may be suffering in ways I cannot guess. 


When my last mystery was published, I requested a review from a well-known reviewer. She was happy to comply, but she asked first if there were any references to suicide in my book. Her son had killed himself, and this was someplace she didn’t want to go, even in fiction. I was thankful she could be so candid about her trigger.

Recently more and more bloggers are posting “trigger warnings” at the top of their posts so people with various issues know before they read that the content may be disturbing. I love this. I’m reasonably tough when it comes to reading material, but I appreciate knowing if the post will contain anxiety, rape, violence, harming of animals, or such so I can make the choice whether I’m up to it or not.

I write both cozy mysteries and sci-fantasy. Either way, I want my stories to make people happy in spite of their morbid theme. In a cozy mystery, the crime is a puzzle for the reader to solve while enjoying interesting characters, attractive scenery, and a few mild chills along the way. In my cat sci-fantasy, I shake it up a bit, but I still wish to leave the reader with a sense of hope. Other writers write other stories for other readers. For example, Stephen King made his millions pushing the horror envelope. But no matter what you write, be thoughtful. I still see no excuse for killing the pet.