InkSpotter News

ISSN 1715-1015

Information and Support for Creative Writers

 Published by InkSpotter Publishing

Volume 3.04                April 2005

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In This Issue

Editorial

Bookmarks

Feature Article

Columns

Pen & Ink

Literary Lapse

Bragging Rights

Book Reviews

Letters to the Editor

Editorial

There's Gonna Be Some Changes Made

Actually, the changes have already started.

The addition of an ISSN is part of the evolution of my business. As of April 1st, InkSpotter Writing & Editing became InkSpotter Publishing. 

The title change brings me in line, after nearly eight years, with my original vision for InkSpotter. Writing and editing are all well and good--and those activities will continue--but my real goal is to become an independent publisher.

Now, I realize that one newsletter does not a publisher make. This change occurs hot on the heels of my acquisition of a second newsletter, Heritage Writer. And I have other projects in the hopper.

This is a very exciting time for me. InkSpotter News is turning into a paying market, and Heritage Writer will follow suit. Much of the credit goes to my incredibly loyal subscribers. Without your ever-growing presence and ongoing support, I wouldn't have made it this far.

I hope you'll stick around for the next phase in InkSpotter's development. Things are about to get interesting!

Betty Dobson, Publisher/Editor

Bookmarks

Each issue, I use this space to share my personal writing-related successes from the past month. With any luck, I'll never run out of material.

New at Writing the Bottom Line:

Feature Article  

Reviewing any artistic work, whether a novel, a movie, or a painting, must satisfy its fundamental need for existence. Why do we authors wish our literary offerings assessed? One reason for wanting a work reviewed is rather primitive. We all have a deep urge to be recognized as good writers after pouring out our hearts, time, and energy on a project. If it is our first, the butterflies are likely to be in high attendance until we hear the verdict. It is a career-shaping moment. Also, if we can garner positive comments from respected members of the profession, we’ll disseminate them widely to make it available for many to read. Such a review will undoubtedly assist us in generating sales. Of course, it may not be possible to come before the eyes of one of the literati. In that case, you should take a little time to choose a person you respect, regardless of their nonentity status, by observing samples of their reviews or other writing that gives clear evidence of talent. Only the gifted recognize art better than their own and are likely to be ruthlessly honest.

Be that as it may, it is important to distinguish between two types of commentary. A review is not a critique. Critical appraisals dominate the realm of performance and feedback for the purpose of making improvements, as in writing groups. Critiques also differ in that they can dwell on certain issues and seem overly harsh in order to induce positive changes. They require a mature attitude on the part of the author, for they are often uncomplimentary about some aspects of your writing. If offered by a knowledgeable person, they can prove invaluable in righting those shortfalls you didn’t realize you had.

The review, on the other hand, tends to appear more even-handed and fair. Those who do it well can find themselves literally swamped with requests for more. Only the most committed writers should delve into this field because it compels you to be very thorough to analyze what is right and wrong about the material read. You must be genre-knowledgeable, know its successful writers, be willing and able to research uncommon issues, and be familiar with the art of the essay, knowing how to present an argument with conviction. You cannot entertain being a reviewer without possessing a clear image of its pitfalls and rewards.

Should you charge? At first, no, or at least minimally ($5). You can only hone the technique of succeeding by doing them. It may take 25 reviews before you are comfortable with it and feel some mastery. That requires finite time and it must fit into your schedule. You don’t want reviewing to curb your other literary desires. Once you are satisfied with moderate success, you can raise your prices, if only to curb the massive number of requests that will undoubtedly come your way.

The reviewer also needs to be honest, most especially in this literary business because it is replete with frauds who cannot help you. Establishing a reputation as a glitz-kudo prince/princess, one who praises indiscriminately and without much thought, is death. If one gleans Madison Avenue advertising techniques, as commonly employed in today’s television commercials, or emulates the ethical standards of film industry hype, the sale of a client’s first novel is likely to exceed all expectations. If the novel is brilliant and worthy, both you and the author will establish a great reputation. 

If, however, the opus sucketh, leaks, or indicates a distinct requirement for remedial workmanship, thou shalt sink to oblivion faster than the FDA can pull a pill off a pharmacist’s shelf after determining that its valued claims are false. In other words, if your blurbs are deceptive, misleading, or outright lies, like the majority of consumer products, your 15 minutes of fame is likely to be forgotten very quickly. Libraries and brick and mortar bookstores are inundated by such lame ducks, all of which are slated for incandescent garbage disposal units.

An honest opinion, then, is of paramount importance. Others may disagree, but no one should ever be able to question the integrity of your stated words. 

Next, consider the physician’s creed. Do no harm! By that, I mean to suggest that impartiality is critical and should be observed readily. Favouritism is out. One should never entertain a review if the result will be either excessively positive or negative. A proper review of literature should always be undertaken with the idea of affording the author a balanced representation of your views. If your scale is likely to tip too much one way or the other, reviewing is not for you.

It should go without saying that a work must be examined fully from cover to cover. I mention it because I have seen examples of those who did little more than scan the book in question, resulting in a poor or bad analysis. This is a clear disservice to an author and ruins your reputation. Read it all the way through from start to end. Take notes on the way, because it is improbable you are going to recall certain pages where you might want to illustrate a point later on. Some use bookmarks and fill them with relevant ideas and quotes.

It is possible that a literary work strikes you as being so outstandingly written that you cannot find anything to criticize. I have never seen such a beast, but am assured it lives. The opposite is also plausible. In such a case, it might be wise to issue a disclaimer, mentioning the fact that you are naught but a single entity capable of error. Generally, I find it best, if a work is so poorly written that a review of it would engender more harm than good, to cease and desist. The author should be told the truth, but publishing your opinion should not be done. A very bad review could come back to haunt you for unexpected reasons.

To achieve balance, one should give evidence of having evaluated the material thoroughly by quoting examples of both well-crafted and lesser quality phrases. Comparisons with quotes from more famous works is often a sharp technique. Elegant, brilliant and exceptionally artistic parts within the body of the whole should be brought to the reader’s attention. Always back up your likes and dislikes with reasons. Never say, I loved/hated that and leave it hanging. The biggest and most urgent question an author/reader has of you is why you feel the way you do. 

If it’s a novel, to be comprehensive, you should be prepared to cover topics such as the hook, premise, characterization, development, narrative description and dialogue, style and technique, twists, and denouement. The short story or essay should be equally well covered, though to a much lesser extent. Also, a reviewer should never stray far from the author on a personal level so as to make reference to biographical elements in order to provide more depth and meaning for the subject at hand. Anything not understood and likely to cause reader confusion, should be researched exhaustively. If necessary and possible, and you cannot find the truth of something critical, contact the author by all means.

Finally, a book is not solely the author’s doing, but relies on the publisher and possibly an editor. Anything the house produces in non-conformance with the principles identified in the industry standard, The Chicago Manual of Style, should be identified. There are numerous buzz words in the literary business to be avoided if possible so as to insure a unique presentation, one not burdened by the repetition of other commentators. Of course, the standard expectations of grammar and punctuation apply the same as if writing your own manuscript. Your analysis will also be reviewed, so it must be literate.

#

As noted last month, I decided to hire up to three writers to handle the following monthly columns:

I feel rather fortunate to have received as many applications as I have. There are so many qualified applicants, in fact, that I haven't been able to decide who to hire.

So I'm going to beg off for a little while longer but, rest assured, the columns will return next month.

Want links to paying Canadian markets?

Pen & Ink 

William Rieser (a.k.a. Penumbra) joins yours truly (a.k.a. InkSpotter) to form the team "Pen & Ink." Each month, we'll feature poetry and prose from The Writers' Association's growing list of anthologies.

Travis Pennington's poems "Broken Wings" and "A Moment of Passion" originally appeared in The Writers' Association's latest release, Epiphanies and Other Absurdities. Piper Timek's "Out Go the Lights" was published in Soaring.

Broken Wings

by Travis Pennington

A father comes home late from work 
A fifteen hour pace 
His wife is standing at the door 
Tears falling from her face

She tells him that she has some news 
A baby's on the way 
They pray a son will soon be born 
There are many bills to pay

At last the fateful day arrives 
The tension fills the air 
The doctor comes out with the news 
A daughter did she bear

There is no joy or celebration 
No smile on either face 
For all a girl will do is cost them 
Precious food and space

She lived until the age of twelve 
So innocent and brave 
But her family lived in poverty 
So they sold her as a slave

Her mother kissed her, tried to smile 
There was no other way 
Her father dropped her off 
And quickly drove away

Dreams once shining inside her eyes 
Were never seen again 
From that day she would be 
A prostitute for men

She could have been an eagle 
But she has broken wings 
She could have been a melody 
But now she cannot sing

April is
National Poetry Month

A perfect time to order your own copy of Epiphanies and Other Absurdities

Out Go the Lights

by Piper Timek

As the elevator came to an abrupt stop, Janet pulled her little girl to the side to let the young couple enter. Couple of what? she thought. They were an eclectic blend of punk, Goth, and grunge. Complete with body piercings and tattoos in all of the apparent available locations, black leather adorned with chrome spikes, and hairdos fashioned after flamboyant birds, they were a not-so-uncommon portrayal of New York City's finest artistic expression.

The other woman in the elevator glanced at her watch, politely ignoring them. The young man reached across and hit button number seven on the wall panel. Janet put a hand across her protruding, pregnant belly to brace herself for that inevitable queasy feeling she got each time an elevator began its ascent or descent.

"Man, I can't stand elevators," the girl said. "I'm claustrophobic."

Janet gave a small, acknowledging smile. The woman on the other side slid her glasses further down her nose and peered at the girl like she just now realized she was there. She was dressed in a professional looking suit and carried a bulging briefcase.

The interior lights blinked twice. The elevator stopped with a jerk and promptly they were all standing in pitch darkness. There was complete silence, unbroken by even the sound of air flowing in through the vents.

"What the hell!" It was obviously the young man speaking.

"Someone try to hit one of those buttons." It was the voice of the lady Janet had come to regard as some type of businesswoman.

"Mommy, what's wrong? How come it's dark?" Shelly, her little girl, started whining.

"It's okay, honey. The power just went out. It'll probably be back on in a minute."

Janet ran her hand over the control panel, pushing every button she felt. "Nothing."

"Hey dudes, I don't think this is a power failure. What if we've been hit by terrorists again?"

"Dale, don't say that! Man, I gotta get outta here." Her sentence was punctuated by heavy, rapid breathing.

"Mommy?" Shelly began crying.

"Oh man, that's all we need; a bawling brat to listen to."

Janet spoke up. "Excuse me, young man. You could have a little sympathy. She's obviously frightened."

"Sorry, and the name is Dale, lady."

"Is your girlfriend all right?"

"Tara? Yeah, she'll be okay. She has to use one of those breathers every once in a while."

"Well, it's already been about five minutes. We might as well complete our introductions. My name is Janet and my daughter is Shelly."

"I'm Micki." The businesswoman's voice came from the other side of the darkened room. "It's actually been ten minutes. I have one of those luminous watch dials. Maybe we should try pounding on the door."

The sudden sound of a loud impact against the metal doors caused Janet to jump.

Dale was now pounding with his fist and shouting, "Hey! Can anyone hear us?"

No response followed.

"Is it just me, or is it getting hot in here?" Tara asked between deep, gulping breaths.

"It's getting hot," Micki said.

"I think normally they have cool air circulating in these elevators. When the power cut out, it took the air conditioning, too," Janet said. "Micki, what time did you say it was?"

For a brief second the green glow of Micki's watch partially lit the elevator. "It's 4:07 right now."

"I was supposed to take an insulin shot at 4:00, but I decided I was going to wait until I got home since I only live a short distance from here."

"You have diabetes?" Micki asked, sounding concerned.

"Pregnant diabetes. It should clear up soon after I deliver."

"Geez, it goes to show you I'm not very observant. I didn't even notice you were pregnant."

"Eight and a half months," Janet said with a certain amount of pride. "My doctor says it could be any time now, actually."

"Holy shit! You're not gonna drop that thing here are you?" Dale asked bluntly.

"Well," Janet said, "that's why I asked what time it is. If I go into diabetic shock, I'm not sure if it would trigger labour or what."

"Dale, help me find my inhaler," Tara said. "I can't see nothing in here. Wow!"

"What? Did you find it?"

"No, but I found that box of tea light candles I bought today at the head shop. Give me your lighter."

"Cool." Dale set the small candle on the floor.

Tara immediately pulled her inhaler out of her deep bag and took a treatment.

"That's much better," Janet said, giving her little girl a reassuring hug.

Janet could see in the dim light that Micki had removed her suit jacket. Unfortunately, she was wearing a dress and couldn't remove much. Her hair was already damp with sweat. Janet figured it must have been nearing a hundred degrees in here already. The air felt like it was quickly getting stale, and the heat activated an unquenchable thirst that she sometimes experienced as a result of the diabetes.

"Does anyone have any gum?" Janet asked, feeling like her tongue was sticking to the roof of her mouth.

Tara began digging in her bag. "I have some, but it's not sugarless."

"Thanks so much."

Tara offered a piece to Shelly, who in turn smiled shyly at her.

Micki glanced at her watch again. "It's only been a half hour now and I'm dying in here. It probably doesn't help that it's in the high nineties today. Surely someone should know by now that the elevator is broken. What do you think we should do now?"

Dale looked up to the ceiling. "We could do one of those movie escapes where they get out through the trap door." He pointed up to a grate in the ceiling. "Anyone got a screwdriver?"

"I've used a dime before in a pinch," Micki said.

"Cool, I didn't expect the businesswoman to have any common sense."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" 

"How are you going to reach it, Dale?" Tara asked, purposely interrupting.

"Someone's going to have to help hold me up, duh!"

For the next half hour, Dale stood precariously on the bent upper thighs of Micki and Tara, struggling to unscrew the cover with an inadequate dime.

"Hurry, Dale, I'm going to have a bruise on my leg. I can't hold you much longer." Tara's leg and support arm were shaking.

"You think this is easy? Some of these screws seem like they're welded on."

Janet sat on the floor observing the trio and feeling guilty she could not be of more help. Even if she weren't pregnant, she didn't know if she could assist. Without warning, she felt as though she was going to throw up, but fought the urge, realizing how disgusting it would be in this small space.

"Damn it! I dropped the friggin' dime." Dale hopped down from his makeshift ladder. "Let's take a break."

Micki let out a big sigh and rubbed her leg.

"I got six of 'em," Dale said. "There's just two more, but I might need to tap them with something. They've got paint over them."

They all joined Janet on the floor.

"Mommy, I have to go to the bathroom."

"Oh, Shelly, you're going to have to wait until we get out. Hold on a while longer, honey."

Her daughter frowned and asked, "Did you wet yourself, Mommy?"

Janet looked down at herself and saw she was sitting in a small puddle. With all the perspiring and heat she hadn't noticed.

"Oh my God, her water broke!" Micki gasped.

"Does that mean she's going to have her baby now?" Tara asked, staring at Janet like she had the plague.

"You just cross your legs, lady. There ain't no way, no how, that this guy is going to help deliver a baby."

"Well, thanks for your show of support. Nobody asked you for your help. Why don't you just work on getting us out of here?" The first signs of lower back pain began to grip her as she spoke.

"C'mon, Micki, Dale. Let's get those last screws out," Tara said as she positioned herself for Dale to once again stand on her leg.

"Dale, I have a curling iron in my brief case. Could you use that to tap on the screws?"

"A curling iron? Man, what don't you women carry? Sure, pass it to me once I get up."

Dale pounded on the screws, trying to chip away the paint. "This is bullshit! I need something to wipe the sweat out of my eyes."

Shelly walked over to the balancing act and passed an embroidered hanky up to him.

"Thanks, kid, and sorry about the swearing. I got one! The other one seems like it's loosening up."

"C'mon Dale, you can do it," Tara said.

From her spot on the floor, Janet clenched her teeth. The pains were coming regularly now and with more intensity.

Shelly snuggled up next to her mom and stroked her sweat-soaked hair. "Are you okay, Mommy?"

Janet just nodded until the most recent pain subsided. "I'll be okay, pumpkin. You know when we talked about you getting a baby sister?"

Shelly nodded.

"Well, it's time for her to come out. Sometimes it hurts, but it's all natural. So don't you worry."

"I got it!" Dale yelled. The last screw fell to the floor with a soft clink. He jimmied the grate cover until it was loose enough to come off. "I need the candle." He jumped down and both women groaned, bracing themselves for him to remount.

"What did you see?" Micki asked.

"Holy crap! It's only a small air duct, maybe a foot or so high at the most. It just widens at the opening. We're screwed."

Tara slid to the floor, crying. She began hyperventilating between sobs. Dale put his arm around her and kissed her on the cheek.

"I'm sorry, baby. I tried."

"How are you doing, Janet?" Micki asked.

Janet was going through her breathing procedure, one she had learned in her natural childbirth class. "The contractions are coming pretty regular now."

"Here's my watch. You should start timing them." Micki slid the spandex band over her wrist.

"Where in the hell is everybody? Why hasn't someone rescued us?" Dale asked.

Exhausted by the intense heat, they all sat silently with the exception of Janet who cried out during her contractions. Tara and Dale leaned against each other and dozed.

Suddenly, Micki opened her eyes. "I have an idea. Dale, would Shelly fit in that shaft?"

Dale opened his eyes groggily. "The kid? Yeah, it'd probably be tight, but I think she could do it."

Janet interrupted her deep breathing, shaking her head. "Shelly? No, I don't want to send her crawling through an air vent." She grabbed her belly. "This is a bad one."

Micki scooted over next to her. "Janet, you are going to have that baby right here in this elevator unless we get help. Shelly could be our hero. I can't really think of what danger she would be in. What do you say?'

"I want to be a hero, Mommy. Please."

Janet was in the middle of rapid breathing as she stared into her companions' eyes.

"Janet," Tara said, "we'll tell her just to come back if she runs into any problems."

"I guess I don't have a choice," Janet said, which made her no less afraid for her daughter's safety.

Dale jumped up. "C'mere, munchkin. What we want you to do is head down. We're probably on about the third floor. You want to get down to the first, unless you see a way to get into a room sooner. You understand?"

Shelly bobbed her head up and down.

"If you find a way out, Shelly, tell the first person you see that we are stuck in the elevator. Tell them your mommy is having a baby. If you see a lot of people, go to a policeman if you see one. Okay, honey?"

Dale lifted her up to the opening. "You think you can fit in there, kiddo?"

"I'll try." The little girl squirmed into the opening until her feet were out of sight.

"Can you move, Shelly?" Dale called up.

"If I stay on my belly."

"Okay, you go, little girl," Dale said. "Be our hero."

"I love you, Mommy." Her voice already sounded like she was moving away.

"I feel like I have to push!" Janet yelled.

Tara and Micki got on each side of her and held her hands.

"Try to hang on a bit longer," Micki said. "Hopefully Shelly will bring help soon." Janet took some comfort in their presence as Micki wiped the sweat from her forehead.

Dale started pacing the short distance from one side of the elevator to the other.

"Man, I'm starved! I haven't eaten anything all day."

Tara shook her head.

Micki looked at her and smiled. "Men! How could he think of something like that at a time like this?"

Janet laughed, and her mirth was infectious.

"Well, I am. I can't help it," Dale said sheepishly.

Taking a more serious note, Micki looked up at Dale. "By any chance, are you carrying a knife?"

Dale stared at her. "You think just because I'm punk, that I'm carrying a weapon?"

"That's not what I meant. A lot of guys carry a small utility knife. When this baby is born, we're going to need something to cut the umbilical cord."

"I have a nail clipper in my bag that has a real little blade," Tara said.

"Man, you think she is really going to have her kid when we're here?" Dale said.

"I'll invite you to the christening if I do," Janet said in a feeble attempt at joking before another contraction gripped her.

"Oh, God! I can't wait any more, Micki. It feels like it's coming."

"I always dreamed about becoming a nurse. Here's my chance for some first-hand experience." Micki lifted Janet's dress hesitantly. "You better get those panties off." All shyness gone, she helped Janet to remove her underwear. "I can see the head; it's crowning. What do we do?"

"Grab your blazer to wrap it in," Tara said, pointing.

Dale stood facing the wall. "I can't deal with this. This is like, radical!"

"Come on, honey. A couple more pushes," Micki said. "Hey, does your husband have black hair?"

"We'll need to wipe it off and clear the nose and mouth out right away, so it can breathe," Tara said. "I saw it on a movie before."

"Right. Here it comes. I got the coat ready to catch it."

Dale turned around and peeked. "Oh my God!"

Tara was busy clearing the air passages, and Micki cut the umbilical cord, leaving it long enough to tie. The infant let out a loud squall.

"Janet, you have a healthy, dark-haired, baby girl." She passed the bundle to Janet.

Janet cuddled the baby close, quieting its whimpers. Suddenly, there was a loud banging from outside the doors. They all jerked in surprise.

"Shelly must have made it!" Micki cried.

Tara threw her arms around Dale. "We're saved! I'll never ride an elevator again."

"You and me both, baby."

Janet looked at Micki. "Sorry about your jacket."

"Oh, just a little something I picked up at Sacs. Consider it a gift for the baby." They shared a laughed.

"Hey everyone," Janet said. "I just want to thank you all for your help."

The tip of an axe was making its way through the crack between the doors. Seconds later, two firemen were pulling the doors back. The tiny enclosure was filled with fresh air that was several degrees cooler and felt heavenly.

"Where's Shelly?" Janet asked, looking through the opening.

"I'm here, Mommy. I was a hero." She stood beside a male EMT who had a stretcher on wheels.

"You sure were," the EMT said with a smile.

"Hey, Janet, congratulations on your baby," Dale said.

"Give me your address, and I'll invite you to the christening." 

Tara quickly jotted it down on a gum wrapper.

Micki handed her a business card. "Don't forget me."

As she was loaded onto the gurney, Janet called out, "My last name is Blake. I'm in the book."

Lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling, she thought about what a horrifying experience she had just endured, one made a whole lot better by strangers who now felt like friends.

A Moment of Passion

by Travis Pennington

Work detail with the other inmates
Each with a story to tell
Not gonna be here for too much longer
'Cause soon I'll be burnin' in hell

Shot the bitch for cheatin' on me
With a brother from across the town
Walked in the room on my hour-long break
Caught him standin' with his Levi's down

Now they're strappin' me to the wired chair
In just a moment I'll be seein' you
And I'm sure that we both now realize
What a moment of passion can do

Literary Lapse

Literary Lapse is a prompt-based mailing list. Members receive weekly writing prompts and are encouraged to share their work with the rest of the list and give each other feedback.

Once a month, I select my favourite story, essay or poem for publication and pay the winner $5 (US funds).

The Prompt

Seems like you can buy just about anything online these days.

The Winner

No Pink Cadillac
by Ann Heide

Amanda lowered her head onto her folded arms. The exposed ceiling bulb shed a meagre pool of light across the kitchen table. Dirty dishes piled on the counter behind her. An overflowing ashtray sat beside her computer. A whole month had passed by and her best friend Patty was still her only client. No pink Cadillac for her, no company shares to dole out, no brass ring.

Her friends had assured her that it was a wicked good idea. They agreed that most people were too busy with their professional commitments to remember when to clean the bathtub or reorganize their sock drawer. They had more important things to think about.

The title "Your Personal Chore Manager" appealed to Amanda. All her former employers had noted that she was very organized, though none used the exact wording she'd put on www.chorechimes.org: "organized beyond your wildest dreams."

Amanda had started by listing her household tasks and their frequency:

· clean bathroom once a week
· vacuum twice a week
· clean fridge every 3 months
· clean oven every 6 months
· change bed linens once a week
· water plants every 5 days

The idea was simple--brilliant she'd thought at the time. All her clients had to do was tell her the last date they had completed each of the listed chores. When one came due, Chore Chimes would send them an email reminder. A merry chime would sound as the messages dropped into their inboxes.

Amanda spent many hours composing messages to make the chores seem both necessary and fun.

"Hi ___,

There's dog hair on the chair
Footprints on the stair
The carpet can't be seen
It's time to vacuum clean!

Enjoy!"

"Good Morning ___,

Remember that zucchini you bought last month to make soup? The nacho dip left over from your party? Mince pie filling your aunt gave you last Christmas? Well, they're all starting to grow.

Love from your fridge."

She created her company logo from clip art. A broom and a mop formed an X across a round yellow no-longer-happy-face. A clear message. Her self-made Web site featured quotes from satisfied customers, though she had to make up the first few herself.

When a week passed with no nibbles, Amanda decided to do some market research. She printed a colourful flyer, posted it on the bulletin board of her local grocery store, picked up a Tim Horton's coffee, and hung around to observe.

An elderly man paused, scanned the flyer, and walked away.

"Excuse me, sir," she said. "What do you think about Chore Chimes?"

"Door Chimes?" he replied. "I already have them, thank you."

Next Amanda approached a stunning oriental lady with incredibly perfect make-up.

"Excuse me, miss," she said. "What do you think about Chore Chimes?"

"I don't need someone to tell me when to do the chores," she snapped. "I need someone to do the chores for me."

Now, a month had passed, and Patty was still her only client. My life is a shambles, she thought. I haven't even had time to think about making love with Tom.

Amanda suddenly raised her head. "Timely Tips," she said aloud, "or maybe Timely Tidbits." She pulled out a cigarette, turned to her computer and began the list:

· blow job once a week
· buy sexy lingerie every 3 months
· replace vibrator batteries every 6 months

Bragging Rights

This is the space where subscribers get to do a little bragging about their own writing successes. Don't be shy. We want to hear from you.

I am celebrating the fifth anniversary of my Garden Tales column. The
column began March of 2000 in the Weekly Press. It now also appears in
the Dartmouth Laker, Bedford Magazine, and Southender. It also ran for three years in the Guysborough Journal.

My short story "A Gift Returned" will appear in Long Story Short's April issue.

Jean M. Madigan is a writer living with her husband in Phoenix, Arizona and has stories published at the following sites:

Book Reviews 

Complete Works of Aristotle, Vol. 1 

by Aristotle

Princeton University Press, 1995

ISBN: 069101650X

Reviewed by Carolyn Howard-Johnson
Regular monthly reviewer for InkSpotter News 

Ahh, if writers could get over their fear of the classics and if we could understand that Aristotle's vocabulary was a tad different from ours, we could learn much from this ancient critic.

Aristotle had no word for "literature" at his disposal so when he used the word "poetics" he wasn't talking about "poetry." Aristotle's Poetics is, according to G.M.A. Grube, Professor of Classics at Trinity College at the University of Toronto, "a collection of musings, often extraordinarily illuminating, by a great thinker on the subject of tragedy." Tragedy was, of course, the epitome of literature for the Greeks. I urge writers not to concentrate on the word "tragedy," but rather on the word "illuminating," for the techniques that make for great tragedy also make for great fiction--great writing in general.

When we hear the title Rhetoric, we might not understand that Aristotle used this vehicle to argue against Plato's theories, much as critics tend to quarrel over one another's points of view today, and that it is about effective technique.

In any case, writers who have taken a few classes, joined critique groups, and done their homework will find they can learn a lot and see many of the tried and true principles of writing in a "new" light if they will take the time to study Aristotle. As an example, if novelists can refine their hero to something close to Aristotle's ideal, they will find that even the most calloused of agents or publishers will have trouble rejecting the manuscript.

Aristotle's examination of the six aspects of "tragedy" work so well for today's fiction, I was in awe. As a novelist, I see more in it than I did as an undergrad in English literature when it was expected that somehow it would help me better assess assigned material. Aristotle talks about plot and character and beginnings, middles, and ends. He talks about diction, music and spectacle. I should have been taking notes!

In Rhetoric, he examines the general vs. the specific, the proper use of connectives, even asyndeton. But my favourite is his discussion of metaphor. Once when I was lecturing on lively writing, I talked about metaphor. During question and answer, one person wanted to know if there was a site on the Web where he could find good metaphors. I told him there was no such easy key for unlocking that secret; I had forgotten that Aristotle comes about as close as one can get to that. For one, he suggests we try to keep our metaphors in the present tense and active. Beyond that, I'd rather see you struggle a bit through Rhetoric yourself. There are so many more gems here--real sparklers that are worth the dig--ideas and direction that you'll miss if you don't read it for yourself. Aristotle does not provide a magic wand or site, but he does provide a very good yardstick with which you can measure the images of others as well as those you have crafted yourself.

Amazing, isn't it, how much we can learn from our elders?

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Carolyn Howard-Johnson’s first novel, This is the Place, has won eight awards. Harkening, a collection of stories, has won three. An instructor for UCLA's Writers' Program, her new how-to book The Frugal Book Promoter: How to Do What Your Publisher Won't unlocks a few promotion secrets that may propel your book to stardom once you've mastered Aristotle's basics for writing great fiction.

Grab the Queen Power: Live Your Best Life 

by Allyn Mitchell Evans
Published June 2005 by Star Publish

Reviewed by Lea Schizas
Apollo's Lyre Editor and Star Publicist

Every woman wants to feel like a Queen. Yet the long imposed rule of thought that this is a man's "patriarchy" domain sets many women back. Allyn Evans' Grab the Queen Power: Live Your Best Life will begin setting you free to experience ways of breaking out of the self-imposed "women are for cooking and men are for ruling" train of thought. You will begin to feel like a Queen.

Evan's interviews with the women who shared their inner thoughts and past recollections are heart warming. Many of these women felt they were in cultural situations that kept them from evolving to their full potential. Their recollections and experiences will help you to realize your own "Queen Power."

Evans has managed to capture the essence of why some people or cultures consider it inappropriate for a woman to display the same assertiveness as a man when it comes to their career or to having an outspoken personality. She shows you how to see yourself as unique, how to begin the process of unravelling the cultural web that may be strangling you and keeping you from becoming the woman you were born to be.

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You've said a lot of nice things about me in your March blog and elsewhere, but failed to mention my better half, Sandra, a.k.a. Vivecc, co-manager of [The Writers' Association]. Without her, I never would have written a single poem, essay, short story or novel; neither could I have sustained WA or been of help as an editor to those who needed me. She is a silent force to all but me and deserves much more than I can give her.

Another excellent issue. Can't handle those other columns for you, sorry, but at least I'm free. Don't want your hard-earned money, just poems and stories for WA, especially reprints.

The newsletter was outstanding. You took on a mammoth task and single-handedly made it seem effortless. Your Blog was topical and interesting. You are a prolific writer. Writer, editor, layout designer, commentator. When do you find the time to do it all? There's a ticker tape parade of literary art floating in your mind and you grab whatever you need to create the final project of excellence. Evidence of that talent was presented in this newsletter.

I truly thank you for choosing my poems for this issue. It was a wonderful surprise and one that I will always cherish. Kudos to you for a job well done!

Just wanted to drop you a line and tell you how much I enjoyed this month's InkSpotter Newsletter.

As for being swamped with work, I can relate. All I want to say is I wish you continued success with InkSpotter and with your own writing career.