Title and length:

This prompt does suggest doing anything I like, so shall just talk to you about the title, and length of a piece of writing.

Having just completed, (again), my story, ‘Angels behind the Scenes’, I am considering, first of all; is the title catchy enough, or should I change it to something better that will ignite the imagination? This will be an ongoing dilemma, until I am satisfied.

The Synopsis:                                                                                                                              ‘Angels Behind the Scenes,’ is a fantasy short story written for all who are interested in what lies on the other side. Heaven and Earth merge in this gentle but moving tale. Perhaps this story will encourage people to ask for help from the angels amongst them. Remember you are not alone. Love and joy are not old-fashioned values, but necessities in everyone’s lives.

The second quandary: I looked up the ideal length of a YA story.                                                This varies according to the site you might look at. One table that caught my eye on: http://fiction.writing.yoexpert.com/s…

Under 1,000 Flash fiction

1.000-7,5000 Short Story

7,500-20,000 Novelette

20,000-50,000 Novel

This table varies from others that consider my 11,000 word + in the short story bracket. I rather like the word ‘Novelette.’ I copied this table as it suits me!

The publisher that produced my first children’s book suggested 20.000 words for YA.

This brings me to the decision; do I make the story longer… to fit someone else’s expectations? Surely there are masses of children, or adults that like to find something they can sit down and read in one comfortable sitting?

I read of another author, saying the spine of the book had to be wide enough to be seen once on the bookshop shelf.

If only there were people out there who would take a manuscript and do the necessaries to make it into a book, just as there are curators out there who take a painter’s work and do all of the tasks necessary to get the work hung and seen. Literary agents are like hens teeth, very difficult to find.

I wonder how many of you are facing the same dilemmas/problems? Any suggestions or experiences you would like to share will be very welcome.

 Daily Post: Imitation/ Flattery, Michelle W.

Write a post, anything you like….(omitting , in the style of your favorite blogger).

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/imitationflattery/

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Challenge from Black Candelabra:

Black Candelabra: The Dewey Decimal System

This weeks challenge starts with a game. First, select four numbers between zero and nine.  If you like, you may choose two of a single number within this group of four. I chose 1970.

Next, create three 3-digit numbers using your selections from the first step. Mine: 170.

Next, visit this Dewey Decimal System website and find the subjects that match your three digit numbers.  If one of your results turns up “not assigned or no longer used,” you may create a new 3-digit number to replace it from the original four you selected.

Some results will be broad categories (diseases) and some will be more specific (Bible).  For any broad category you turn up, choose something specific within that category.  Specific topics can be kept as-is. 170 Ethics (moral philosophy)

This will leave you with three things that must be incorporated into your post this week.  However, this should not be an exercise in one-mention-and-done.  Elevate your three results to the level of setting, character, theme, or other major component in your post.

The number chosen, 1970, was the year my first child was born. This was a major year change for me, moving back to Urbino in Italy from Switzerland. We moved into a modern apartment outside the city wall. My pen friend, Ceri, in Cornwell sent me pamphlets telling me about what to expect in pregnancy, as there appeared to be no education available for new mothers. Being a foreigner, I felt like an outsider looking in.

People were friendly. It was not just the language barrier; it was far more than that. The doctor told me to eat for two, and when I asked about nutrients, he suggested eating lots of pasta and spinach. No mention of watching alcohol intake, or smoking less. Fortunately I didn’t smoke, and alcohol consumption was minimal. Pastries were a temptation that I couldn’t deny. So I expanded, even though the doctor had mentioned he thought my hips were too narrow to give birth to a baby, not very comforting words to a young mother to be.

My friend Martha, who lived at Via Bramante 70, (sorry, not 170) helped me feel part of the place. We walked and talked. Martha did not speak English, and so my broken Italian gradually improved.

My Italian husband was not happy with his new teaching position. Having worked in different countries, he now observed Italian culture from an outsider’s perspective and no longer agreed with the way things were done.

As it was expected, I suggested inviting his boss, the professor, home for a meal. Umberto refused, as he didn’t agree with the dishonesty that was prevalent at that time in the department. His moral dignity meant that he didn’t fit in, and he soon found his position untenable.

Baby Francesca was born in a fourteenth century nunnery that had been converted into a hospital. The twenty- nine steps to enter were symbolic of the lack of thought for its purpose. A summer thunderstorm announced Francesca’s safe arrival, followed by my mother, Martha, Massimo, Umberto and Robi all surrounding me in the hospital room with alcohol and strawberries ready for a party. Francesca observed with a knowingness, having been here before.

Umberto had been right about the Professor, as he’d claimed Umberto’s work as his own. Should he have tried to fit in and keep his head down? I think he was right to stick with his moral judgment and leave. Even though it meant selling our new white goods below their valued price, we had to continue paying for the goods well after we had left them behind, returning to Switzerland.

 

https://blacklightcandelabra.wordpress.com/2015/03/02/the-dewey-decimal-system/

Why ask if you don’t want to know:

Daily post: What question do you hate to be asked? Why?

Perhaps the question I most hate at the moment is, ‘How is the book going?’

I know that if they know me well enough, they won’t ask this question. The ones that ask usually have no desire to hear the answer, so I respond with a curt answer that tells them nothing.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/plead-the-fifth/

‘Show don’t Tell?’

Proud by Michelle W.                                                                                                                     When was the last time someone told you they were proud of you?

 This is an interesting topic because when I was young, parents kept their feelings to themselves. It wasn’t that we felt neglected. Even telling a child that they loved them reminds me of the writing rule: ‘Show don’t tell.’

So we were shown that we were cherished in practical ways. Mothers generally stayed home, and therefore were there to cook meals for the family and keep everything in order. Mum sewed dresses for me. We were read to and with no TV, families talked. My parents were not demonstrative. Hugs were restricted for the odd occasion when children might return after a holiday away, or a kiss on the cheek before going to bed was the norm.

So as far as expressing ‘I’m proud of you!’, it would have been unspoken. Very different from the way children are brought up now.

Thinking back, my parents probably didn’t even express their pride in their sons who did achieve with their scholastic achievements. Being a late bloomer, I didn’t complete my university studies until I was in my forties. My mother did shown pleasure in this, especially as I gained tenure in a permanent teaching position. This did please her.

My children are far more able to express their feelings and they may have said they were proud of me, though I can’t remember. They were all delighted when I had, ‘Lily’s Wish’, my first book published. So I do believe in ‘Show’, but I can’t help break the rule and ‘Tell’ my children that I’m proud of them, occasionally.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/proud/

 

 

To do or not to do:

Morton’s Fork by Michelle W.                                                                                                           If you had to choose between being able to write a blog (but not read others’) and being able to read others’ blogs (but not write your own), which would you pick? Why?

If I had to choose between writing a blog or reading others’ blogs, I would choose writing my own. Selfishness must come with any artistic endeavor; otherwise we wouldn’t achieve anything.

That is the why, but I would miss the input of other people’s ideas. There are many posts that I really love reading and some not so much. There is never enough time to get around the huge number of fantastic posts that I haven’t yet discovered! So writing takes precedence. Blogging can be very time consuming, and if one wants to write, one must be disciplined to keep that time for writing.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/mortons-fork/

And a dash of cadmium red:

Embrace the Ick, idea By Michelle W.

Think of something that truly repulses you. Hold that thought until your skin squirms. Now, write a glowing puff piece about its amazing merits.

Vomit, texture adhering to all it landed on, twinkled with jewel coloured capsicum, carrots and peas. The grey/brown background allowed the gems to glisten in the sunlight. Strands of spinach gave a seaweed effect with a deeper green hue. The enticing smell wafted breezily, attracting the canines in the area to come and consume this delight, licking lustfully, it soon disappeared.

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/embrace-the-ick/

Re-write: ‘Milly, Molly and Mary’

Having received my two manuscripts back from the editor, I quickly did some changes to this children’s story below. I hope you like the changes.

Millie, Molly and Mary Barbara Pyett © 2014

3/4

Millie, Molly and Mary, are three chooks who live at a dairy.

They cluck for some corn, as cows moo with a yawn.

Cats meow in the sun, as dogs bark for fun.

Millie is dainty, her comb is quite painty,

Molly is plump and feels like a frump,

Mary’s feathers are sleek, but she’s rather meek.

5/6

One night, they roost, sound asleep on the Ute,

expecting to be there ‘till morning.

That night Farmer Brown drives into the town.

To his great surprise, his mates soon advise

And point to the chooks on his fender.

No time for a bender, a change of agenda.

Instead, he drives home to Brenda.

7/8

When the cock gives a crow, they belatedly know,

Their night ride can’t hide,

their feathers askew, it had to accrue

to censure their own misadventure.

They hop off the Ute; Farmer Brown gives a hoot,

and concedes the chooks need a feed,

before milking his cows that are waiting by now.

9/10

Next night as they sleep, a slinky fox creeps.

The dog makes a growl; the cat gives a yowl.

Farmer Brown wakes from sleep, leaves his bed with a leap.

Scares the fox from the barn that runs far from the farm.

11/12

Another night, they huddle in fright.

Thunder and light make them want to take flight.

Drumming hail sees them pale as they shake on the bale.

Eggs scarce for a while, warrants no smile.

13/14

The cows moo outside with nowhere to hide.

Cats yowl in the house and hide with the mouse.

Dogs growl in the shed, wait to be fed.

15/16

Peace reins on the farm, hens cluck in the barn,

Lay eggs, one, two and three for farmer Brown’s tea.

They cluck for some corn, as cows moo with a yawn.

Cats meow in the sun as dogs bark for fun.

No longer wary, they visit the dairy.

No longer flappy, they are so happy.

Farmer Brown appears with a smile ear to ear,

his grin doesn’t vary when he spies Millie, Molly and Mary.

 

Whether there will more more changes, who knows? I am now absorbed in ‘Enduring Threads’ and loving having the opportunity of seeing it with fresh eyes. Thanks to Sophia Barnes for her patience and expertise, it was well worth while having a professional editor go through and see the story with a detached perspective.

 

 

 

Sweet and spicy?

The spice of success

 ‘If failure is the condiment that gives success its flavor’ (Turman Capote), how spicy do you like success stories?

A discussion on radio about Mills and Boon publications prompted me to read my first M&B novel. In Australia there are 76 writers of these books and I wondered if I would be able to write one, just for fun.

The book I read was ‘Since you’ve been gone’, by International best selling author, Anouska Knight, which was very sweet.

I really don’t think I’m sweet enough to dollop out such saccharine sweetness/spiciness in my writing. Success might be sweet and spicy, but I am drawn to write less palatable prose, and therefore less popular stories. My beloved thinks it would be fun for me to embark on such an adventure, but I don’t think I’m up to it! I shall struggle on writing what feels right for me.

I shall read ‘The Narrow Road to the Deep North’ by Richard Flanagan when my beloved has finished reading it. This will inspire me to, hopefully, better things. This book deservedly won the Man Booker Prize 2014. What an inspiration Richard Flanagan is!

 

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/the-spice-of-success/

Another picture book to be:

Millie, Molly and Mary Barbara Pyett © 2014

( At present, I’ve not kept the rhythm ordered. This text is before a visit to an editor, shall see how it evolves after the visit.)

3/4

Millie, Molly and Mary, are three chooks who live at a dairy.

They cluck for some corn, as cows moo with a yawn.

Cats meow in the sun, as dogs bark for fun.

 

5/6

One night, they roost, sound asleep on the Ute,

expecting to be there ‘till morning.

That night Farmer Brown drives into the town.

To his great surprise, his mates soon advise

And point to the chooks on his fender.

No time for a bender, a change of agenda.

Amender, he drives home to Brenda.

 

7/8

When the cock gives a crow, they belatedly know,

Their night ride can’t hide,

their feathers askew, it had to accrue

to dementia, or their own misadventure.

 

They hop off the Ute; Farmer Brown gives a hoot,

and concedes the chooks need a feed,

before milking his cows that are waiting by now.

 

9/10

Next night as they sleep, a slinky fox creeps.

The dog makes a growl; the cat gives a yowl.

Farmer Brown wakes from sleep leaves his bed with a leap.

Scares the fox from the barn that runs far from the farm.

 

11/12

Again next night, they huddle in fright.

Thunder and light make them want to take flight.

Drumming hail sees them pale as they shake on the bale.

Eggs scarce for a while, warrants no smile.

 

13/14

The cows moo outside with no- where to hide.

Cats yowl in the house and hide with the mouse.

Dogs growl in the shed, wait to be fed.

 

15/16

Peace reins on the farm, hens cluck in the barn,

Lay eggs, one, two and three for farmer Brown’s tea.

They cluck for some corn, as cows moo with a yawn.

Cats meow in the sun as dogs bark for fun.

 

No longer wary, they visit the dairy.

They’re no longer flappy, now they are happy.

Farmer Brown may appear with a smile ear to ear,

his grin doesn’t vary when he sees Millie, Molly and Mary.

 

‘Millie, Molly and Mary’ is a children’s farmyard story picture book for the young at heart. The play with language will both increase a child’s vocabulary as well as entertain the adult reading the story.

Haste is the essence:

10 minutes. You and your keyboard. No pauses, no edits, no looking back. It’s free write time! Ben Huberman, Daily Post

Night falls as I search for my keys. Where is she? I’ve got to find her before she falls into his hands. Where did I put them? Think!

Where did I last have them? He may have caught her already. Be still, relax, they have to be here somewhere. Hidden under my clothes strewn by the bed, they are nestled in a jumper. I grab them and rush for the car. Did I get petrol? Is there enough?

I press the door opener, nothing happens. The power is off. A torch, all I need is a torch, so I can find the pamphlet to tell me how to manually open the door. I feel as if my feet are dragging through mud, I’m so slow. She might be screaming , needing me, I’ve got to hurry!

She needs me now. Where’s that pamphlet. Ring, Ring! I wake in a lather feeling fraught. She’s alright, I can calm down now.

 

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/ready-set-done-4/