Friday, December 30, 2005
Free Ebooks for Writers
A listing of free ebooks for writers: "This page contains mostly ebooks on honing and improving your craft as a writer.
"
"
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Word Smitten's Exclusive Interviews with Manhattan Literary Agents
This flash fiction site has interviews with agents:
read these exclusive interviews with literary agents who represent some of the greatest authors currently published, including ZZ Packer (Simonoff) and Dan Duane (Finch)
Friday, December 16, 2005
book: Creating Short Fiction : The Classic Guide to Writing Short Fiction, by Damon Knight
'To those who hunger to be writers I commend this book without reservation.'--Harlan Ellison
Damon Knight passed away recently --he was not only a great writer (penning such classics as the original Twilight Zone episode 'To Serve Man') but a first rate teacher. I have many writing books including Jack Bickhams 'Writing the Short Story'
and the classic 'Short Story Writing' by Thronley but THIS book by Knight beats them all. He not only covers everything from getting ideas to mixed viewpoints and compression in story action but goes into such detail you will feel you're are sitting in a serious university class on writing fiction.
As a matter of fact this book is NOT some fluff piece on 'getting in touch with the inner writer' and all that nonesense --no this author treats the reader as a serious aspiring writer. He also includes excercises which adds to what he is teaching you.
I only wish I could have met this author to shake his hand. A job very well done you will NOT be disappointed! It's about 208 pages (with index) of packed information on how to write and especially on how to get control over your story, keep that control till the end until you have a quality manuscript.
Harlan Ellison recommended this book--Harlan Ellison the guy who had enough chutzpah to jokingnly insult Asimov in person 'you're not so great!' if you know Ellison you know he would never recommend anything unless he liked it.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
story: White Beard
White Beard
By Surendra Mohanty -
"Hey look, that's Dumbledore!" cried out little Rachel pointing through her window at the old man, out on the lane.
"Stupid! His real name is Richard Harris. He plays Dumbledore," replied her brother, an ardent Rowling fan.
"No Gary," added Jones, the eldest sibling. "Don't you know Richard Harris is dead? That must be Michael Gambon."
The old man suppressed a chuckle. Thank God, these kids didn't recognize me, he thought. Though he had changed his guise there was nothing he could do to hide his long flowing beard. He hurried past the row of houses, sneaked into the church backyard and tiptoed into the vicar's room. Father Gillian was waiting for him.
"For Christ's sake, what took you so long?" asked the priest.
"I was watching the kids at play. Is my suit ready?"
"You've all night to watch your kids. Here, take your new suit and get going, before someone spots you. And take care, the snow is gathering fast."
The old man grabbed the parcel, winked impishly and rushed out of the backdoor.
It was getting late in the night. Groups of carol singers were already out on the streets. The old man hid his face with the parcel, as if to block the drizzling snow. He walked in the shadows and headed straight for the woods. Once there, he changed into his favourite bright red suit.
"Rudolf, Dancer, Prancer! Where are you?" he called out. "Come on, we've got a job to do."
= = = = =
Surendra Mohanty's bio: This 47-year old Indian believes he can write and even tries his hand at it. Believe it or not, some of his stories did get published. His likes change constantly, almost every year. Sometimes it's horses, sometimes collecting coins and sometimes traveling. Only thing constant with him is his family. Married for 21 years, he lives with his wife and daughter in Dubai.
By Surendra Mohanty -
"Hey look, that's Dumbledore!" cried out little Rachel pointing through her window at the old man, out on the lane.
"Stupid! His real name is Richard Harris. He plays Dumbledore," replied her brother, an ardent Rowling fan.
"No Gary," added Jones, the eldest sibling. "Don't you know Richard Harris is dead? That must be Michael Gambon."
The old man suppressed a chuckle. Thank God, these kids didn't recognize me, he thought. Though he had changed his guise there was nothing he could do to hide his long flowing beard. He hurried past the row of houses, sneaked into the church backyard and tiptoed into the vicar's room. Father Gillian was waiting for him.
"For Christ's sake, what took you so long?" asked the priest.
"I was watching the kids at play. Is my suit ready?"
"You've all night to watch your kids. Here, take your new suit and get going, before someone spots you. And take care, the snow is gathering fast."
The old man grabbed the parcel, winked impishly and rushed out of the backdoor.
It was getting late in the night. Groups of carol singers were already out on the streets. The old man hid his face with the parcel, as if to block the drizzling snow. He walked in the shadows and headed straight for the woods. Once there, he changed into his favourite bright red suit.
"Rudolf, Dancer, Prancer! Where are you?" he called out. "Come on, we've got a job to do."
= = = = =
Surendra Mohanty's bio: This 47-year old Indian believes he can write and even tries his hand at it. Believe it or not, some of his stories did get published. His likes change constantly, almost every year. Sometimes it's horses, sometimes collecting coins and sometimes traveling. Only thing constant with him is his family. Married for 21 years, he lives with his wife and daughter in Dubai.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Flash Fiction: Good Things Come in Small Packages
Interesting article, here's an excerpt:
Some connotations of Flash are perfect for what the Flash artist should be trying to do: the sudden burst of light, fleeting illumination, sudden awareness, epiphany. Others are more indicative of what the Flash artist needs to avoid: the flash of the con man dazzling the unwary, the flash in the pan, a lack of depth that cannot last.
Flash literature at its best 'should flame out like shining from shook foil;' it should 'fall, gall' itself, 'gash gold vermilion.' It should get to the inner heart of the thing, its inscape, in the words of the poet. And it should do so without wasting a word. When you're talking about a few hundred words, you had better make sure that every word is there for a purpose.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
book: Sudden Fiction International: Sixty Short-Short Stories, by Robert Shapard,James Thomas
Another good collection of stories:
"this anthology presents an enticing smorgasbord of 60 short-short stories (none longer than five pages) from every continent, including work from such rarely represented countries as Botswana, Guatemala, Cyprus, and Pakistan. Although a quarter of the stories are from the United States, where the short-short form now flourishes, the catalog of international writers is impressive: Cortazar, Kawabata, Boll, Colette, Dinesen, Gordimer, Garcia Marquez, Babal, Calvino, and splendid lesser-knowns such as Krishnan Varma. Not all these exotic delights will suit every palate--the stories range from realism to absurdist fantasy, poetic lyric to political allegory--but one is always left hungry enough to try another. The collection also includes commentaries by the writers and translators and is perhaps even better than the earlier book."
website: Flash Fiction!
Another flash fiction site, this one with contests where they give you the premise and you write a story. Lots of stories here, and a message board.
Monday, December 05, 2005
article: Why Write Flash Fiction? by Pamela Heffernan
Good article on writing flash:
Have you ever had a fleeting moment of inspiration? A brief story that calls for you to tell it, but you feel no desire to enhance it to a longer piece of fiction? Don't blow it off as an unusable idea just because you can't see it being a longer story. Write it, feel it, grow with it. This is flash fiction.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
article: Make It Easy for an Editor to Publish Your Story by Michael L. Wilson
A good short article about writing flash:
Click the link above for the full article.
"The difference between stories that are published and those that are rejected often come down to one misspelled word, one awkward line, or not following one of the explicit instructions in the publication's writer's guidelines.
These mistakes are deal breakers. Let's face it. The competition is fierce for publication. Out of more than 1400 submissions flashquake receives every year, only 120 are published. Sometimes writing is less about writing something brilliant, than it is about writing something good, following the rules, and not making mistakes.
So here are some pointers for increasing the odds of publication by decreasing the odds of rejection"
Click the link above for the full article.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
story: Urges
Urges
by Mary Miller - Maryulmer1@cs.com
Carter and I sit at the bar and order drinks. I make a couple of rotations on my barstool and then throw a leg over his knee because both of us are miserable and I think this might help. Carter plays rugby. He wears his hair short. He lives off campus in a house surrounded by trees. Last night, we made out in his front yard. The lawn was patchy in spots like he'd been burning leaves or burying things. When he unbuttoned my jeans, I said, "I don't know you well enough," and he said, "No one knows anyone," and I said, "Of course they don't," and he looked at me like, so what's your point? Then he ran a hand through my hair and it got caught in a tangle. Then I buttoned my jeans and went home.
"I'm not a virgin, but close," I say, continuing the conversation from last night.
"Either you are or you aren't. There's no such thing as close."
"I've only been with a couple of people, and both of them were in love with me."
"So you need to be loved first," he says.
"I guess."
"Well, I can't say that yet."
"Me either."
"But I'm not the one who needs to hear it," he says.
I look at him with my mouth open and he places a hand under my chin and lifts. Then he winks to soften the blow.
I should get up and leave but I just sit there. He starts talking about his ex-girlfriend and how she supposedly had her vagina reconstructed so her lips wouldn't hang out like loose meat. I don't say anything. He holds up the peace sign to indicate two more beers and the bartender looks at me hard when he sets mine down. He watches me after this. I can tell he wants to rescue me.
When Carter goes to the bathroom, the bartender stands in front of me and says, "That guy's an asshole," and I say, "I'm aware." I bum a cigarette off him, and I hear a sound like chicken frying when the lighter flicks and our eyes meet.
"So what're you doing with him?"
"He asked me out and I said yes. Now we're kind of dating," I say. He shakes his head and holds his eyes closed for longer than necessary when he blinks.
Carter stands beside me with a hand on my arm. "Let's go," he says.
I want to slip the bartender my number because his eyes are huge and grey and because he has a single eyebrow that runs the length of his face, but Carter takes my hand and leads me to the door, places a hand on my back and guides me through. In the car, I imagine writing my number in blue ink on his palm. I imagine us in bed, a pair of tweezers in my hand.
"Could you just take me home, please? I'm sleepy," I say.
I call up to the bar and the bartender answers. I feel like I'm calling one of those late-night DJs I'm afraid of, like I'm going to request a song he doesn't like or one that's already been requested fourteen times and he'll say something rude and hang up before I have the chance to say goodbye. I don't know his name, so I say, "Hey. I was up there earlier. I just wanted to let you know that I'm not gonna see that asshole anymore."
"Oh. I'm glad," he says. And then, "Can I call you back in five seconds?"
I hang up and finger the silky inside of my comforter and wait and it's just like I thought it would be.
He calls back and says, "Shit. I'm sorry about that. My manager. Can you drive?"
"Yes."
"So come back up here."
"I'm glad you called," he says, and the weird single eyebrow goes up and stays there. I wait for it to fall back down but it's stuck. "I know that guy. He plays rugby?" I nod. "He has a bad reputation."
"So do I," I say.
"Like how?"
"I got kicked out of my sorority. I failed Finite. I date assholes."
"That's nothing," he says.
"It's something."
"It's not what I'm talking about. You seem like a sweet girl."
"Thanks," I say, and he smiles and sets his fist on the bar with a thump. Then he waits on two blond-haired girls a few seats over. They look at me and look away. He fixes them martinis. One pink, one green. The girls have straight slick hair and bangs, blue eyes. Something inside me opens up wide and shuts with a snap.
"I'm a fisherman," the bartender says, standing in front of me again with a rag in his hand.
"Did I miss something?"
"No, you didn't."
"I've never caught a fish," I say.
"Have you tried?"
"Sort of."
"Well we'll have to work on that," he says, and I'm reminded of the blue cooler full of fish my father used to bring home on Saturdays. All those jelly eyes. How he would slice them clean down the middle with an electric knife as I watched.
"I don't eat anything that has eyes."
"Really? Nothing with eyes?" He seems concerned. The eyebrow bunches up in the middle.
"When I was little I had this dog and it would look at me like it knew something I didn't want it to know," I say, and he nods and one of his eyes gets smaller and smaller until it just about closes. "It was like it knew my expiration date."
"Humph."
"You probably never get the urge to run your car into a ditch," I say, and he shakes his head no and disappears into the kitchen and this is my cue to leave but I don't take it.
= = = = =
bio: Mary Miller is published online at Barrelhouse, Arsenic Lobster, Fling Quarterly, and forthcoming at SmokeLong Quarterly.
by Mary Miller - Maryulmer1@cs.com
Carter and I sit at the bar and order drinks. I make a couple of rotations on my barstool and then throw a leg over his knee because both of us are miserable and I think this might help. Carter plays rugby. He wears his hair short. He lives off campus in a house surrounded by trees. Last night, we made out in his front yard. The lawn was patchy in spots like he'd been burning leaves or burying things. When he unbuttoned my jeans, I said, "I don't know you well enough," and he said, "No one knows anyone," and I said, "Of course they don't," and he looked at me like, so what's your point? Then he ran a hand through my hair and it got caught in a tangle. Then I buttoned my jeans and went home.
"I'm not a virgin, but close," I say, continuing the conversation from last night.
"Either you are or you aren't. There's no such thing as close."
"I've only been with a couple of people, and both of them were in love with me."
"So you need to be loved first," he says.
"I guess."
"Well, I can't say that yet."
"Me either."
"But I'm not the one who needs to hear it," he says.
I look at him with my mouth open and he places a hand under my chin and lifts. Then he winks to soften the blow.
I should get up and leave but I just sit there. He starts talking about his ex-girlfriend and how she supposedly had her vagina reconstructed so her lips wouldn't hang out like loose meat. I don't say anything. He holds up the peace sign to indicate two more beers and the bartender looks at me hard when he sets mine down. He watches me after this. I can tell he wants to rescue me.
When Carter goes to the bathroom, the bartender stands in front of me and says, "That guy's an asshole," and I say, "I'm aware." I bum a cigarette off him, and I hear a sound like chicken frying when the lighter flicks and our eyes meet.
"So what're you doing with him?"
"He asked me out and I said yes. Now we're kind of dating," I say. He shakes his head and holds his eyes closed for longer than necessary when he blinks.
Carter stands beside me with a hand on my arm. "Let's go," he says.
I want to slip the bartender my number because his eyes are huge and grey and because he has a single eyebrow that runs the length of his face, but Carter takes my hand and leads me to the door, places a hand on my back and guides me through. In the car, I imagine writing my number in blue ink on his palm. I imagine us in bed, a pair of tweezers in my hand.
"Could you just take me home, please? I'm sleepy," I say.
I call up to the bar and the bartender answers. I feel like I'm calling one of those late-night DJs I'm afraid of, like I'm going to request a song he doesn't like or one that's already been requested fourteen times and he'll say something rude and hang up before I have the chance to say goodbye. I don't know his name, so I say, "Hey. I was up there earlier. I just wanted to let you know that I'm not gonna see that asshole anymore."
"Oh. I'm glad," he says. And then, "Can I call you back in five seconds?"
I hang up and finger the silky inside of my comforter and wait and it's just like I thought it would be.
He calls back and says, "Shit. I'm sorry about that. My manager. Can you drive?"
"Yes."
"So come back up here."
"I'm glad you called," he says, and the weird single eyebrow goes up and stays there. I wait for it to fall back down but it's stuck. "I know that guy. He plays rugby?" I nod. "He has a bad reputation."
"So do I," I say.
"Like how?"
"I got kicked out of my sorority. I failed Finite. I date assholes."
"That's nothing," he says.
"It's something."
"It's not what I'm talking about. You seem like a sweet girl."
"Thanks," I say, and he smiles and sets his fist on the bar with a thump. Then he waits on two blond-haired girls a few seats over. They look at me and look away. He fixes them martinis. One pink, one green. The girls have straight slick hair and bangs, blue eyes. Something inside me opens up wide and shuts with a snap.
"I'm a fisherman," the bartender says, standing in front of me again with a rag in his hand.
"Did I miss something?"
"No, you didn't."
"I've never caught a fish," I say.
"Have you tried?"
"Sort of."
"Well we'll have to work on that," he says, and I'm reminded of the blue cooler full of fish my father used to bring home on Saturdays. All those jelly eyes. How he would slice them clean down the middle with an electric knife as I watched.
"I don't eat anything that has eyes."
"Really? Nothing with eyes?" He seems concerned. The eyebrow bunches up in the middle.
"When I was little I had this dog and it would look at me like it knew something I didn't want it to know," I say, and he nods and one of his eyes gets smaller and smaller until it just about closes. "It was like it knew my expiration date."
"Humph."
"You probably never get the urge to run your car into a ditch," I say, and he shakes his head no and disappears into the kitchen and this is my cue to leave but I don't take it.
= = = = =
bio: Mary Miller is published online at Barrelhouse, Arsenic Lobster, Fling Quarterly, and forthcoming at SmokeLong Quarterly.
Friday, December 02, 2005
story: Nigel and Miriam
Nigel and Miriam
by Kay Poiro - keishapoiro@yahoo.com
= = = = =
“Wakey-wakey, love.”
Miriam ignored Nigel for the second time that Tuesday morning. Not because it was Tuesday, but because his insistence was never appreciated on Tuesday nor any other morning.
“Miriam, darling. There’s a delightful frost glinting off the windows and—"
Miriam tapped him lightly, savoring the brief silence. She was well aware of the snow, thank you very much. Spinning a duvet cocoon and ducking her head inside, Miriam achieved temporary escape from her dodgy flat (and even dodgier shower pipes), Lilly the Jumper Thief and the inevitable frostbite from standing in the taxi queue for a ride to the worst job in the world.
“Very near 7:00, love.”
Miriam covered her face with a warm, flat pillow in a vain attempt to block out Nigel and his whiney proclamations.
“I know it’s early, but—"
Miriam could take it no longer. Launching the pillow across the room, she stared him down.
“Really, Nigel? Is it early? Just how early is it?”
“—but you do realize you’re guaranteed hot water if you shower by 7:15?”
Miriam returned, pillowless, to the duvet cocoon.
The telephone rang, competing with Nigel’s insistence. Miriam answered and allowed Lilly into her morning.
“Miri, you aren’t still sleeping, are you?”
Grunt from Miriam.
“Well, it’s freezing out and I wanted to know if I could borrow your cashmere jumper—My God, what is that awful racket?”
“That’s just Nigel—I mean, the alarm clock.” Miriam tapped him once more. Five more minutes.
“That’s better,” Lilly sighed. “Anyway, be a sport and lend us the blue cashmere jumper. Before you say, the last few time weren’t my fault. I swear. Anyway, I’ll return this one, promise. What do you say?”
Miriam grunted and hung up, the Jumper Thief’s latest casualty. Could the day get any worse? She swung her legs over the bed and onto the chilly floor. Memories of the duvet cocoon tantalized her. Her big toe crept from the floorboard.
“No, no, Miriam! Stand up. Have a hot shower, maybe one of those banana muffins Lilly brought—”
“Cork it, Nigel.”
= = = = =
bio: Kay Poiro is a writer living in Maryland.
by Kay Poiro - keishapoiro@yahoo.com
= = = = =
“Wakey-wakey, love.”
Miriam ignored Nigel for the second time that Tuesday morning. Not because it was Tuesday, but because his insistence was never appreciated on Tuesday nor any other morning.
“Miriam, darling. There’s a delightful frost glinting off the windows and—"
Miriam tapped him lightly, savoring the brief silence. She was well aware of the snow, thank you very much. Spinning a duvet cocoon and ducking her head inside, Miriam achieved temporary escape from her dodgy flat (and even dodgier shower pipes), Lilly the Jumper Thief and the inevitable frostbite from standing in the taxi queue for a ride to the worst job in the world.
“Very near 7:00, love.”
Miriam covered her face with a warm, flat pillow in a vain attempt to block out Nigel and his whiney proclamations.
“I know it’s early, but—"
Miriam could take it no longer. Launching the pillow across the room, she stared him down.
“Really, Nigel? Is it early? Just how early is it?”
“—but you do realize you’re guaranteed hot water if you shower by 7:15?”
Miriam returned, pillowless, to the duvet cocoon.
The telephone rang, competing with Nigel’s insistence. Miriam answered and allowed Lilly into her morning.
“Miri, you aren’t still sleeping, are you?”
Grunt from Miriam.
“Well, it’s freezing out and I wanted to know if I could borrow your cashmere jumper—My God, what is that awful racket?”
“That’s just Nigel—I mean, the alarm clock.” Miriam tapped him once more. Five more minutes.
“That’s better,” Lilly sighed. “Anyway, be a sport and lend us the blue cashmere jumper. Before you say, the last few time weren’t my fault. I swear. Anyway, I’ll return this one, promise. What do you say?”
Miriam grunted and hung up, the Jumper Thief’s latest casualty. Could the day get any worse? She swung her legs over the bed and onto the chilly floor. Memories of the duvet cocoon tantalized her. Her big toe crept from the floorboard.
“No, no, Miriam! Stand up. Have a hot shower, maybe one of those banana muffins Lilly brought—”
“Cork it, Nigel.”
= = = = =
bio: Kay Poiro is a writer living in Maryland.
submit: The Hiss Quarterly || Submission Guidelines
Accepting sumissions for the "Second Annual NC-17 Issue"
The submission deadline for Issue III.1 is January 1, 2006. The issue will go live on or about February 1, 2006 and runs through April 2006; so please send submissions as soon as possible.
Our theme for this issue is, once again, "NC-17", copied from the MPAA movie rating system as used in the US:
NC-17: A trademark used for a movie rating indicating that admission will not be granted to anyone under the age of 17. This could be because of excessive violence; sex scenes; an accumulation of drug, violent or sexually-oriented language, and/or other features that the Motion Picture Association of America's Classification and Rating Administration believes most American parents would feel is patently adult and that children age 17 and under should not be admitted.
The NC-17 designation does not, however, signify that the rated film is obscene or pornographic in terms of sex, language or violence.
- - - - -
In other words, if you know what "gratuitous" means, and how to avoid it, please steam up our monitor screens.
- - - - -
The Hiss Quarterly showcases emerging and established writers, cartoonists and general nonsense makers for our "Deliberate Nonsense(TM)" department. For the full 'zine, we seek short stories, flash fiction, nonfiction, creative nonfiction, poetry, essays, <100-wd Deliberate Nonsense(TM) and original *anythings*, based on what you interpret the issue's theme to be.
Be aware that Poetry is always the hardest department to crack at our 'zine (and most submitted). If you write fiction or prose of any type, your chances increase greatly.
Fiction Factor - Writing Flash Fiction
Helpful article on writing flash fiction:
"Look for the smaller ideas in larger ones. To discuss the complex interrelationship of parents and children you'd need a novel. Go for a smaller piece of that complex issue. How kids feel when they aren't included in a conversation. What kids do when they are bored in the car. Middle child. Bad report card. Find a smaller topic and build on it."
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