Who needs the bare necessities?

Our camping trip was a darned wash-out. That isn't to say we didn't stay out camping; we did. We are a hearty race, we Heffingtons, and take a Post Office-ian view of our scraped-together vacation time: "neither snow nor hail nor wind nor rain shall keep us from our rounds." So we dripped and moisted and generally made slippery nuisances of ourselves. In the worst parts of the day we ferried across to Williamsburg and inhabited the outlet stores and shops. Funny, because I didn't have any money to spend so I was strictly window-shopping.
The second day I got to spend quite some time hovering in the College of William & Mary's B&N bookstore. That was a lovely thing. I came in at a brisk trot from dodging rain and was quite wet but once inside, the store was just the thing to minister to a mind diseased by overmuch standing out in the elements. I made myself laugh with various P.G. Wodehouse novels in the aisle. I hunted up Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers. I picked up a biography of Audrey Hepburn which I very much wanted to have money to buy, and Mama thunked a huge tome of The Letters of P.G. Wodehouse into my hands. Darn her mushrooms, it was $35.00. When I actually have an income, my expenditure will be equally divided between Books and Starbucks. Who needs food, shelter, and clothing? I ask you! Benjamin found a volume of the entire script from Downton Abbey S 1. This would be devastating for our family as we are all fair hands at British accents and love to act. You'd never see us outside of that tome did it ever set leaf in our house. In addition to all these finds, I found the most curious book: excerpts and photos of drawings from the travel journals of the rich & famous. Such a converstaion-piece; wish I'd had funds to buy that too. I perused the youth section and made up my mind to buy one something for a certain comrade's gift come Christmastime as well as deciding I want a copy of The Hobbit with the pretty green/blue/black symmetrical cover. You know the one. I also decided that I haven't read enough Lois Lowry, so we'll have to remedy that soon.

As far as what I've been actually reading (versus yearning over in the bookstore), that runs rather scapegrace:
The Sacrifice by Beverly Lewis (not too keen on Amish romances but I promised the sister-in-law-ish.)
The Mind of the Maker by Dorothy Sayers (almost done)
The Mystery of the Blue Train by Dorothy Sayers (good fun. I never suspected the culprit but then...I never do.)
Ella Enchanted (I keep finding kid-novels I somehow neglected to read and therefore one of my favorite treats is to bundle myself off with a thoughtless read like that and pretend I'm eleven again.)

Autumn is reluctant in coming temperature-wise but I fixed that by wearing dark-wash jeans, a golden-rode colored shirt and a deep blue cardigan. Take that, thermometer. Well, my cinnamon scones are calling and I've got to make a latte to accompany them. Cheers and all that.

Introducing "Chatterbox", a monthly event

Well, I am back! I intend to get back on a good schedule with blogging so there won't be such disgraceful emptiness between posts. I want you to leave a comment letting me know what you'd like to see me post about; I have my own ideas but I want to be sure I'm covering things that would be helpful to you, not just dribbling my own thoughts all over the internet when no one cares a hairpin about them. One thing I will be starting are some monthly events here at The Inkpen Authoress. The one I'm going to introduce to you today is called "Chatterbox".

Like "Beautiful People" and Katie's "Snippets of Story", Chatterbox is an event to help authors get to know their characters and stories better. I love to talk and I love to write dialog. Chatterbox is, essentially, an exercise in showing your character via the way he or she speaks. It's fun, it is sassy, it is simple. Each month I will assign a conversation topic and it will be your duty to write a conversation between several of your characters regarding whatever I topic I designated. Who knows? You might even end up with something you'll want to work into your real novel. When you are finished writing your post you will be able to link up with me here at The Inkpen Authoress and we'll have jolly larks reading the wide variety that springs out of the assigned topic. If you're in, plunk the picture on your sidebar with a link to this blog and we'll have a go!

October's Chatterbox Topic is:

Coffee

I gave you something easy to start off with, and for my own entry I scrawled down a conversation between two very new characters of a book that doesn't have permission to exist till I've finished my current books. Lah-dee-dah. Mine is very short and could be a discussion between any two characters except for the fact that I know who these two are and I'm a bit suspicious I'll grow to love them. Meet Mr. Orville Farnham of Whistlecreig:

   "Why don't you ever order something interesting?" Genevieve asked, flicking her menu open.
   "I am a boring man."
   "Surely your non-existent imagination could extend to the point of asking for cream and sugar?"
   "I prefer it black. Takes less time."
   "For whom?"
   He winced against the pain in his stomach and spread his fingers. "When a man has time to order coffee in French, he is a wastrel."

 Toodles, darlings! I cannot wait to read your entries. Remember to spread the word. :)

The Pain of Too Much Inspiration

"Have you ever had an idea that is so perfect it just hurts?"

-Eloise at the Plaza

Unfortunately for me, yes. Often I get ideas so perfect they hurt and then consume me because they WILL be worked upon however little I actually want to abandon current projects. Lots of story ideas have come clamoring at me these past couple of weeks as I wrote The Windy Side of Care and went back to finishing edits on Fly Away Home. Autumn always furnishes more inspiration than I know what to do with, so I always store it away like a miser and sort it out later on.
I can't work on a complex story like The Baby while my time is chopped up by schedules and politics and hardly any time to write--Baby is at that tangled stage I come to in every story where only clinging to the mizzenmast and peering through the sleet gets me through; right now I don't have time to cling to any masts so I'm sticking with fleshing out a few other story ideas and seeing what will come next after The Baby. Perhaps I'll even work simultaneously; we shall see. After next week when my schedule clears I intend to put my nose back to the grindstone with him.
The Windy Side of Care has come back from several readers with varying degrees of criticism which I am sure will be wonderful in the editing stages; for the most part I'm encouraged--people seem to like it pretty well and most have assured me that it has twists they never thought a Cinderella-story would take, so that's pleasant to hear; there is only but so much you can do with rags-to-riches bones that still have to have all the fleshing out of classic Cinderella-isms to qualify.
The excellent Bree Holloway is working on a mock-up cover for Fly Away Home which I'm excited about. I've wanted to make a little emblem for it for some time but my skills when it comes to things like that are nil. Soon you'll be able to put a face with FAH. (woo-hoo!)

Of the new story ideas, Murder, Miss Snubbins, Brownstone, and Much Love, Goldfinch are the main troublemakers. Much Love, Goldfinch is set in the thick of WWII and will be an historic spy-thriller for which I'm extremely excited. I have been reading The Secret Armies and garnering much inspiration. WWII has always been a favorite time-period of mine and the whole subject of espionage and Resistance-workers has always enthralled me. You might not know this, but until I was thirteen or so, I was intent on being a spy when I grew up. Ho-ho and all that. I have very little concrete plot for Much Love, Goldfinch, but I am looking forward to seeing what could come of it; the possibilities are endless. Funny enough, Henry IV and Henry V are playing into the inspiration-field too. And Red Dawn and Sophie Scholl. And we can't forget the fellowship in The Lord of the Rings, and the some extent The Zion Chronicles. I've always longed to write a book about a fierce remnant, and Much Love, Goldfinch might become my outlet for this percolating idea that has been teeming around for the last several years.

One of the young  Polish agents in The Secret Armies

I have given you a scrap of letter from the aforementioned just to tease you. Do you think I ought to proceed with caution?

Dear Hog Nose:

In the art of espionage, you’re never asked to know your comrades. In fact, knowing them--really knowing them--is almost as big a mess-up as telling a Gestapo agent to his face he’s a dirty German dog. Did you obey well enough to not be hurt by my capture? I bet so, seeing how you reacted to Jelly’s death: a grim laugh; not a single tear. A “better watch your step, sister,” for me.

But of course I’m Goldfinch--the little bird who taunted big Luftwaffe eagles, bit the Gestapo’s backside, and lived through their tortures to write this letter.

Concentration camps aren’t so bad, and there are several other women here who--if I interpret their screams of pain correctly--did something a heck of lot worse than me. Course I don’t have my toenails anymore, but I didn’t squeal so that’s all right; I was braver than that and to be straight with you, I’m a little surprised. Makes me want to march around this dinky joint singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” and get a little exercise to ease the burning pain of being crouched here ad infinitum. I’m tired of darkness and whispering and no showers. Send me a fresh tube of lipstick if you can--mine’s almost out and you know how I hate to see a Fritz without any. Also, I’m craving chocolate bars and my guard swears at me in German when I ask if the Americans have sent me any.

Hog Nose, I’m writing this letter because I know you’ll never get it. I’m not getting out of here and I pray to God you’re never getting in here. That means nothing I can tell you will be any worse than sitting here--eight months since my imprisonment--in complete silence with my secrets for company. All your scooping and digging and you never found out. Well. Guess I won the bet after all.

People used to check weather forecasts--remember that? You and me sitting in the corner of the le cafe rose drinking coffee and talking about rain while waiting for the convoys to come along? Here, the prison grapevine predicts whose turn it is at the shooting squads. You’ll never get this letter, yeah, but I’d better write it anyway before the weatherman calls for Goldfinch.

...Well. Ten minutes and the words won’t come. Forecast clear and no clouds on the horizon just yet. I’ll save my news for another day. Send the lipstick.

Much Love,

             Goldfinch

Have you set any particular writing goals for October and if so, what are they?

A Writer's Untapped Paradise: People-Watching

 "I'm just people-watchin', watchin' people watchin' me..."

-Jack Johnson "People-Watching"

I like to shake things up a bit in my class and give the gals writing assignments that aren't your run-of-the-mill short stories. Since I am working from my own resources and not following any set of curriculum I get to choose each week's topic; having taught them the versatility of Action Beats Vs. Dialog Tags, I thought it'd be a fun assignment to go out to lunch and have them people-watch in order to add originality to their action beats. We piled into the van at lunchtime and headed off to Panera where I assigned them each a position in different corners of the restaurant to eat their own lunch quietly and observe everyone else eating theirs. (On the ride over I instructed them minutely on how to people-watch without detection so the poor customers don't feel like butterflies on pins. "No Customers Were Harmed In the Making of This Post" and all that.)

"He ain't a 'tec, he's a bloomin' busy-body!"

(did anyone get that reference?)

Even I, a dedicated people-watcher was surprised at the variety of descriptions we came up with as we scribbled madly and tried not to let our soup go cold in between. There was a woman who had grown up in Japan and been abducted for half an hour because of her white-blonde hair. The same women's parents live in Ireland now, and the rest of her family in Tuscany or Tuscon. (This pupil wasn't quite sure which) Another has a step-daughter who married a man who earned $75-80,000 a month and spent oodles at posh clothing stores.  Other scraps we got down were just bits of description of peoples' actions...it's amazing the stories you can unearth just by sitting there and not-quite minding your own business...

And because we came up with such random gems, I thought I'd show you the notes I managed to get down in the hour we were people-watching; it's like a different sort of Snippets post because I wrote them all in third-person...heehee.

She leaned on her fist and ignored her meal, focused instead on the screen of her iPhone.

The woman tore pieces of bread from her roll and dipped them into her soup one by one.

"Feel free to open that." She shoved a packaged cookie toward her friends.

The woman seemed to be at odds with her ponytail, always flicking it over and tossing it behind her shoulder. Babies and long hair do not, apparently, mix.

He left his plate and soup bowl at the table while he got a refill as if, she thought, there were no hungry beggars in the world who might descend upon it like buzzards while he was gone.

The expression on her face as she crossed her arms was meant to pronounce definitive judgement on the thing of which she disapproved. 

She wiped each of her fingers between bites in what seemed a strikingly fastidious manner, considering she had been eating bread.

"Him? Oh he's not married."

"Did I hear he beat you?"

The woman folded her receipt after she had been seated and took an age filing it in her purse where it probably now lay cheek-to-jowl with a coupon for 50 Cents Off Tomato Soup and a pamphlet from her granddaughter's ballet recital.

"What did you have to eat for your birthday?"

"Uhhhhh-huh....her usual."

"Well they were good...OH! I forgot to tell them to put that stuff over it!" (what stuff, we wonder?)

When she laughed, her head jerked down and her shoulders forward like an eager, strutting pigeon taking halting jerks across the pavement.

The manager refilled the baskets of cookies and squeezed out from behind the counter with a fawning smile for a passing female customer. His grey hair was pulled back in a slick, respectable ponytail and when he walked it was with a certain feline grace that she knew, somehow, was part of his act.

The boy had an uncomfortable manner of fastening his eyes upon you as you talked and chewing rapidly like a concentrated and famished hare. Also, one of his eyes stared slightly in an alternate direction which only heightened his rabbity-ness.

"He put up his great big paws and WOOFWOOFWOOFWOOF he was out the door and I was chasing him and I realized I was naked. I hid myself but next time I was outside cooking fish, my neighbor said, 'That was some show.'" (now I am scarred for life.)

He used a form of God's name instead of adjective which somewhat marred the impression of an educated man.

He crossed his arms across his large belly so his elbows looked like hams and stared like a large and somewhat disgruntled genie. 

One half of her mouth appeared to be permanently hitched up in a snip of a smile showing a few white teeth in the left corner of her mouth.

She held her drink while she talked and it was fascinating--if you were bored enough to notice--to watch the slosh of liquid in the cup as she punctuated her conversation.

"She gets herself in more predicaments."

The old man possessed a humped back so that his head appeared to be glued to the front of his neck instead of the top.

"My wife's daughter spends spends spends all his money."

"He used to earn $75-80,000 monthly."

"They used to go to a place on Taylor Rd--it's closed now, thank God--but it was called Madamoiselle's and it was the kind of place you'd buy three outfits and it would cost $2,500. I told her, 'You do not take your mother to Madamoiselle's any more.' So she called her mother one day and said, 'Come on and meet me in front of Madameoiselle's--Steve put me on a budget and I have to stay within the budget.' " 

A pretty good catch for a single lunch-hour I think.

Cottleston Pie Resurrected!

You probably all know by now that I wrote Cottleston Pie (what of it I wrote) for my youngest sister, Grace. Gracie is the craziest kid I know: personality-wise she's a mixture of The King and Simpian Grenadine, so it's always fun for me to click open the Cottleston Pie document and write out the next dose of nonsense. I hadn't done this for months now--probably since January or February. To write nonsense, you must be in a very particular frame of mind where nonsensical things roll off your brain at a rapid rate. "Holy-Moly, m'boy. It takes brain-power!" So I don't push to write nonsense in any time-frame. Since Cottleston Pie is more episodic anyway, I work on it whenever the mood strikes me. :)

Last night while the younger ones were folding laundry, they asked for a story. I, in my ever-thoughtful imagination, told them a story about a Dingle-Hopper bird that had spoons for feet, knives for a beak, wings made out of waxed paper and a body made out of sugar. He stole all the fresh produce every night from the poor chef's garden, and finally one night the chef trapped him under a basket by way of a blueberry pie. It rained that night and the next morning the Dingle-Hopper had dissolved, leaving nothing but spoons, knives, and waxed-paper wings behind.

They all got tears in their eyes.

What on earth makes them throw their loyalties to the villain of the story? Eh. Anyway, to cheer them up from that tragedy, I read to them Cottleston Pie and this morning I tapped out another chapter at which I thought you might like to have a peep. You will need to know that the King thinks cows are "Skellingtons" (and is mortally afraid of them), and Simpian and the King just sent a message to The Friendly Ones (the friendly whats?) by way of a reluctant, nasty old crow and await the reply. Enjoy this chapter--it's especially inspired by Gracie who has a dread of getting rickets but isn't quite sure what they are. :)

-Cottleston Pie-

Chapter 4: A Plague of Rickets

Simpian and the King lived for some days in a paste of Anxiety and Despair while waiting to see if the crow had taken their message like a proper carrier-pigeon to the Friendly Ones. There were just so many things that could go wrong with a mission like this; the crow could have untied the string with his bill—though since the King had threatened to cook him, Simpian wasn't certain he would have tried that—or perhaps the scroll of paper had dropped off his leg while flying and was now speared on some thornbush in the Middle of Nowhere and would never get to the Friendly Ones ever in their life; what a sad prospect.

So it was that the mood at Cottleston Pie was a bit less “Happy Birthday” these days and a bit more like “Time for a Bath”. Simpian tried not to be cross with the King for all the silly things he did, like tying Simpian's shoes to the door of the tree-house for a knocker, “carving” things with his pencil on the floor, or eating the ginnerbread Simpian was saving for the Friendly Ones whenever they came.

Simpian had just awakened from not-sleeping when he saw the the King running his red pointer-finger round and round the inside of a rather empty tin. “Your Majeshty!”

The King jumped and turned the color of Tottles's head-rag. “I'm washing the dishes so you don't have to,” he hurried to say, and popped the last of the crumbs into his post-box mouth. “The ginnerbread's all right.”

“There wouldn't be dishes to wash if there was still ginnerbread in that box. Did you eat it all?”

The King turned the tin upside-down over his head and shrugged. “I can't imagine where it went. Holy Moly, boy, but it's fast! It just took one look at me and said, 'Catch me if you can' and off it went toward the Rickety Pines.”

Simpian stood, brushed the grass from his pants, and took the tin from the King. It really was tragically empty. “You're lying to me. You ate it.”

“I'm not lying. I'm sitting up. Look at me: the model of Perfect Poshter.” The King sat up straight as a tree and even made an effort to fix his crown. Simpian looked at him closely. As far as he knew, liars grew enormously long noses—the King's nose was enormous, but it wasn't what you'd call long.

Simpian tucked the tin under his arm and drummed on it with his fingertips. “Did you maybe just taste the ginnerbread?”

The crown slipped over the King's nose and he righted it again with a sorry smile. “I did. As a reward for my Perfect Poshter.”

“How many times did you taste it?”

“Leventy-twelve.”

“Aha.”

The King grinned and shook Simpian's hand. “And a very good 'aha' to you.”

Simpian scratched his head and wished the King hadn't eaten all the gingerbread...he didn't know if Tottles would let him have anymore and they must have a treat for the Friendly Ones. “Didja take that many tastes because you had such good Poshter?”

“Holy-Moly, boy. Did you ever see such a straight spine and fine legs? I had rickets as a child but lookit me now! I'm big as a genie in a bottle who's got out of his bottle.”

Simpian now sat on the tin, curious. “What's Rickets?”

“Rickets is a disease. A terrible sickness that'd kill you soon as look at you.”

Rickets. Simpian liked the sound of it...it sounded a little like crickets and a little dangerous. “Where do you get it from?”

“From dancing.” The King said. “Or...” and Simpian noticed his face looked a little pale, “Or from being too handsome. Or sometimes just because the Ricket jumps on you--not in a polite way such as 'Can I make you ill?' but more of the sort that catches you by surprise in the middle of the Night, or the middle of the day. Or at the tea-table.”

Rickets. Villains, that's what. “What happens to you when you've got a Ricket?”

“Your back hurts and your nose stuffs and then you start to walk like a hunchback.”

Simpian felt a shiver-fish slide over his body at the mention of a Hunchback. “What then?”

“Then your legs go like noodles and Holy-Moly, boy, that's not the worst part.”

“What is the worst part?”

The King's face was serious and quiet like he had a pain somewhere. “The worst part is that you can never ever ever get better again.”

“But how did you get better?”

“I didn't say I couldn't get better, did I? You're the one that would never get better. That is, if you were lucky enough to be stricken by Rickets. It's choosy about who it Strikes. You can't be too careful if you're a disease, striking people who don't deserve it.”

Simpian wished the King would stop talking about sicknesses and...and Hunchbacks. He remembered hearing about another king in a history book sometime. This king had a hunchback and he really wasn't very nice to the two little boys he kept locked up in a Tower. “I don't want Rickets,” he said, and plopped on the ground Indian-style.

“Well,” the King sniffed. “That doesn't much matter to them. What matters is, does Rickets want you?”

“I hope not.” 'Specially because the King had said he'd never get better, and though Simpian liked being coddled well enough, and getting things like pudding and cambric tea, he didn't much like the thought of having to be Only Allister forever an' ever. He always had to be Allister when he was sick, because things like Rickets don't bother Pirates named Simpian Grenadine. Which, Simpian thought, was probably just as well because Pirates don't have doctors either and there'd be no one to give him medicine.

“Ohhhhhhh!” The King groaned so loudly that he jostled Simpian out of his thoughts and made him jump like when someone says “Boo!” in a dark room.

“What's wrong?”

“The Rickets have got me!” The King rolled over onto his side, clutching his stomach and blubbering to himself.

“What do I do?”

“There's nothing to do. Holy-Moly, boy! This is the end! Say goodbye to the dear old Cottleston Pie Tree for me.”

“It's right behind you.”

The King squinted open one eye and felt the tree with a groping hand. “So it is, my boy. So it is.” He wrapped his arm as far around the tree-trunk as he could. “Ohhhhh ow ow ow. Farewell, or as the French say, Ar-Ree-var! You have been a good home to me and how often I have spent a pleasant afternoon eating peppermint sticks under your leaves. Goodbye, stars! Goodbye moon! Goodbye Rickety Pines. Skellingtons and Crows can trouble me no more. Goodbye world.”

He kissed the bark of the tree and then returned to rolling around on the ground with his hands on his big stomach, moaning.

Simpian thought it a little curious that the King had said Rickets attacked your legs and back, but here he was holding his stomach. “Are you sure this is Rickets?”

But the King would do nothing but moan. Probably ate too much ginnerbread. Simpian watched the King for some time, and then he began to feel odd himself. It started as a tingling feeling in his legs. Rickets. And the tingle spread to his knees. Simpian tried to thing about something else—how a Pirate might kill a Ricket if one tried to attack him—but that was hard to do when your head started aching and your stomach flip-flopped like a drying tadpole. Was it really Rickets? Would he be sick for the rest of his life, or would it kill him quickly?

“Ohhhhhh, ow ow ow! The Rickets has a knife! It's killing me!”

Simpian dragged himself over to the King's side and grabbed his hand. “The Ricket has got me too. If we have to die we can do it together.”

“As friends?” The king asked.

“As best friends.”

“Bravo. You're a noble Pirate, Simpian Grenadine but--Ow--you might try getting us some Medicine!”

Did Pirates faint, and it they did, would now be a good time? Simpian wasn't feeling well at all, he imagined. “What sort of medicine?”

“Lemon-grass,” the king panted. His round face was pale in some spots and red in others. Simpian wondered if he looked as terrible as the poor King.

“Lemon-grass grows in India.” Simpian laid his head on his arms and watched a passing ant with one eye, deciding he felt miserable. So this was Rickets.

The King fished around the base of the Cottleston Pie tree and brought forward a handful of clover-like leaves and pretty purple blossoms. “This is lemon-grass.”

“That's wood-sorrel.”

“Don't argue with a dying Majeshty.” The King curled up in a ball again. “Owwwwww. Quick boy, make a poultice.”

“A what?” Simpian got to his knees, forgetting to feel sick for a moment.

“A poultice. You chew up the leaves and smack them on my wound.”

“You don't have a wound.”

The King fixed him with one glassy eye. “Holy-Moly, boy. Don't argue with a dying—ooooooh.”

He sounded in terrible pain this time. Simpian took the handful of flowers and leaves and stuffed them in his mouth. They did taste like lemon, actually. Simpian swallowed because he was hungry, come to think of it, and picked some more to chew up for the poultice. When the leaves and flowers had been reduced to a paste in his mouth, he spat the mixture into his hand. It glistened green and sticky in the morning sunlight. “What now, Your Majeshty?”

“Put it on my wound.”

“Where?”

“Here.” The King tapped his forehead and Simpian made a face.

“On your head?”

“Owww. Do as I say.”

Well well. So this was how to make a poultice and cure Rickets? Being a doctor was easy. Simpian patted the lemon-grass into a neat green stripe on the King's head. He didn't have to bind it up because it stuck together on its own. “Now what?”

“Leave me in peace.”

“Will it help your Rickets?”

“Nothing helps Rickets.”

“But you said--”

“It helps me think,” the King moaned.

Simpian laid beside the King, starting to feel ill again. If only the Friendly Ones would answer their message and come looking for them. The Friendly One might be a doctor or an Indian-Brave who would know how to cure Rickets. But there was no one. They were all alone, the King and Simpian Grenadine; all alone at Cottleston Pie. They'd die quietly together, best friends and companions, and maybe someone would build a cross over-top of them and wonder who they once were.

Simpian thought all these things as the laid in the bright sunlight, and the day grew hotter and more impatient around them. It wasn't nice at all being sick. It felt just like being grumpy, only his stomach and head were involved. It felt a little like being hungry too, except for the grumpiness and the headache. In the background, the King whimpered.

“Do you think the Friendly Ones will come?” Simpian slipped his hand back into the King's and squeezed it a little.

“I...ow...don't know.”

“We could sing for them.”

“You could.”

“I could sing for them.”

“Do that.”

So Simpian made up a song about the carrier-pigeons and Cottleston Pie, and the Friendly Ones and Rickets and he watched the land all round their hill:

“Rickets aren't crickets

They're ouch-er and meaner

And crickets aren't Rickets

They're nicer and cleaner.

And carrier-pigeons deliver

the mail

So we hope that our carrier-crow

will not fail.

We'd be willing to pay a good doctor a dollar

For splints or a bandage or something to swoller...”

(this last bit didn't quite rhyme and Simpian made a face while he sang it, but something had to go there and “swoller” would just have to do.)

“But nobody's coming, and waiting's no fun,

And if you don't come soon we'll get cooked by the sun.”

No one came. The sun grew even hotter and Simpian's head began to throb. He'd been keeping a watch through the whole song and could see very well the Dark Woods on one side of the hill and on the other, the Field leading up to Waterloo and the Rickety Pines. No one. Not a single speck that could maybe be someone by-and-by.

And just when Simpian was wishing the Rickets would hurry up and kill them—or better yet: go away--he felt a very small earthquake beneath him. Rolling over, Simpian saw the earth crack open in a furrow. Something very like a cigar-butt peered out at him with a grin and two bright black eyes beneath a paper soldier-hat.

“Are you a Friendly One?” Simpian asked, liking the look of this fellow. “Or better yet, can you cure Rickets?”

The Tap Can Now Be Turned Off

Monday dawns chill and perfectly autumnal. I head out to work with Sarah, Leah, and Dad and I don't fret about not having time to write today.

Why?

Because last night at 9:37 I finished the first round of edits for The Windy Side of Care. My family has been patient with me as I've holed up in The Lair in that zone of desperation where I scream like Sherlock, "YOU CAN'T JUST TURN IT ON AND OFF LIKE A TAP!" I always enter this zone in the home-stretch of my stories and beware your head if you dare interrupt me for something as menial as dirty dishes. Sorry guys; you're the top and I hope I didn't snarl too much.

At 11:00, right before tumbling into bed, I sent TWSOC to a list of beta-readers who were then quite prompt in getting on it and reading. (Two have already finished) I was blessed while writing this story with a strangely productive time-period; most days I managed almost 3,000 words which meant that the story built up quickly, leaving more time to edit. The problem was that I thought I had 25,000 words in which to spin my story. In reality, we are given 20,000 words which meant that in the end I had to find ways to cut over 4,000 out of the story. Painful right there. I managed to do it, though, and it is now in review with an army of readers. I am hopeful. Having to cut so many words caused me to have to tighten dialog and description which actually made the whole much stronger. Funny to read a scene pre-editing and post-editing...the change is enormous. I'll probably return to this topic by and by with a post of examples and some advice from one of my favorite writer-instructors.

In other news, the critique group I was a part of several years is beginning again just as I was telling a friend about how hard and yet rewarding it was to take the critique given. I am planning to join, though I will have to decide if The Baby can qualify as a YA novel; I think it serves the purpose well enough to fit and I am looking forward to sinking my teeth into the give and take of serious critique partners again. This group is tough-nails.

So I'm off to work and reading Two Years Before The Mast and I will leave those of you who aren't beta-reading The Windy Side of Care with this teaser:

Fifteen minutes more and I would spread the blood on the white stones of the outer balcony; a half hour and the murder would be announced.

-Part Six

I do a judge a book by its cover

In my not-so spare hours of the day not devoted to writing The Windy Side of Care (I only have 6k words left which means that in two or so days I should be done.) I have decided to browse cover-design ideas for my books. Whether I end up self-published or go the traditional route, there is one thing I will have: an awesome cover. I believe that the author ought to have some idea of what they want the cover of their book to look like or--at the least--to know the difference between a bad and good design. Hence, my diatribe...

There is nothing that brushes my fur the wrong way like a poorly designed, obviously amateur cover. I mean honestly. Sometimes I look at a book and think, "Oh, darlin'. I might read that if it wasn't so ugly." Because even though everyone knows the old adage about "You can't judge a book by its cover", we all do. The cover of your book is how you're selling yourself because if you can't lure a reader over by the appearance of your book, you'll never get them to become captivated by your characters and story. And though the inside of the book (like the inside of a person) is the most important part, you're doing yourself no favors putting forth a dowdy or childish presentation. I was on Pinterest, pinning eye-catching covers, and I decided to search Self-Published book designs. I have seen cheesy professional covers, but if we are to be honest, the ugliest covers are found in the annals of self-published novels. I found this hypothetical cover...

...making a fun (and heart-wrenchingly ugly) poke at what The Hunger Games might have looked like if it was self-published. {Note to self: never use papyrus or bleeding cowboys fonts if you want to be taken seriously. }With this example, I set off to put together a post of covers that work and most definitely do not work, and to discuss the differences with you. Please note that I have read very few (if any) of these books and cannot tell you if they're any good or not. Also, my thoughts on the cover-design are not intended to slam the authors' taste, but to point out where it works and doesn't work for my own taste. Not every one of these books is self-published, so I am aware that they range in quality. Please don't get ruffled and shout things like, "WELL THEY COULD AFFORD A PROFESSIONAL!" I am interested in discussing composition.

 What works: I like the guy and the way his palm is outstretched with the ring in the center. And I love how you can't see his face. I don't like being fed an image that never matches with my mental picture of characters. (especially Christian fluff that end up looking like those wretched Harlequine Romances you find by the drove in a thrift-store)
What doesn't work: The font. Everything is one font, one color, and aligned left. There was little to no imagination in the set-up of the text, and this immediately screams "SELF-PUBBER" to me.
How to fix it: Imagine this could be a pretty cool cover with a bit of tweaking as regards filters. This is pretty one-dimensional. Also, if the text was just cramped and blah, you could do something pretty cool with writing the title on the guy's palm instead of a ring. I think that would be a good use of your somewhat limited space, and a bit more interesting.

What works: For me, pretty much everything. I don't know anything about this book but I can tell it will probably involve Spies, Nazis (brilliant touch with the swastika), and a woman who appears to be trapped by her own loyalties. If I could get a cover design like this for Fly Away Home, I'd be forever happy. Note the use of three different kinds and sizes of fonts for interest, and the way the two photos (above and below the center stripes) use the same filter. This is what I meant with the cover above when I said it needed a filter. Something to tone the light and shade down so it isn't so glaring and raw, and to blend all the elements together.
What doesn't work: Really, there isn't anything sticking out that makes me think, "ew". I could do with less face because like I said, I don't like the cheesiness of face shots (full-body shots are far worse) but since her eyes are dropped, it works. And I love the veil
How to fix it: Run with this cover far, far away from everyone else who will want it for their own. (Ahem. Meeee? Ahem.)

What works: I like the filter used here, and the background image is pretty good, though there ought to be a bigger difference between the shades of sea and sky.
What doesn't work: Again, the font is horrifically monotonous. Not only is it all the same size and style, but the subtitle is rendered almost unreadable (it says "a tale of the Titanic) by the mirage-effect put on it. I am getting a headache from squinting at it right now.
How to fix it: When a book has nothing but a landscape-image on the front, I subconsciously assume its characters were too boring to make the cover. Or the personalities were too flat to occasion thought when the author went to make a cover. I know these authors were probably trying to go for the midnight desolation of a sinking-ship tragedy, but I'd request at least a teeny little row-boat bobbing along in a swath of moonlight to intensify the mood.

 

What works: I love this cover too. I love the ship in the background and the way we are seeing from behind the girl. I love the mood, and I most especially love the pop of crimson in her skirt to add life to an otherwise foggy cover. Also, I love the design along the bottom.

What doesn't work: It'd be nice to see a little more text. Maybe a subtitle or a quote from the book on the front because there's a bit of empty space up toward the top. Maybe that's purposeful, in which case leave it. All in all, I love this cover.

How to fix it: Add a bit of "what people are saying" or something at the top, or leave it as is. I like this cover.

What works: Fantasy is one of the hardest genres to create a good cover for, because one step in the wrong direction and you're sunk. This is a pretty cool cover. I like the illustration--that's how dragons are supposed to look, Mr. Man-Who-Made-The-Dawn-Treader-Movie. I mean honestly. The colors are great, it looks interesting, and bravo to the creativity with text-arrangement!
What doesn't work: It's a bit duo-chromatic, being entirely green and brown respectively.
How to fix it: More color would be nice, (some purple or navy shadows in the lake?) but I'm liking the author's choice to keep it simple and effective. Well done.

 What works: I admit, I'm a sucker for covers with awesome graphic-art. The black and red design is just gorgeous, and I love the unexpected blue smack in the center.
What doesn't work: Umm...it doesn't really give you an idea of what the book is about, which leads me to believe it's a literary novel which, in its turn, reminds me of stuffy people on an airplane who only pick up a book when their iPhone battery dies. I like literary novels, but most people who read them are dull. This is probably a book about a girl in India who was abused or something and has a secret orchard where she keeps jars with all her bitterness toward these people written on scraps of papyrus, and this helps her learn forgiveness.
How to fix it: Well if it is a literary-novel then they've made their point and personally I like this cover a lot. If not, then the author/publisher needs to adjust their cover design to better portray the story.

What works: I like the actual picture. It's interesting, it isn't too revealing as to exactly who this person is, and the lantern is a nice touch. The font is actually pretty and I like the accent-bar up at the top.

What doesn't work: There is too much dead-space in this cover. And since there's light being thrown back onto the girl from her lantern, I think there ought to be a faint glow on the rest of the cover. Also, a sure sign of being self-published is using your first and middle name only. (Bethany Faith) People in real life have last names, so real authors have last names unless you're Avi, in which case we can forgive you, or if you've otherwise stylized yourself for a specific reason. If you are one of those people who shy from revealing their identity, then by all means make up a pen-name. But give your alter-ego a last name because it just looks more professional.
How to fix it: Add a lantern-glow on the blackness. I get that the point is to make the book look dark (hence the name?) but a little glow never hurt anyone. I think the glow would fill up the blankness of the right side of the the cover. Also, get a last name. Truly, though, this is a pretty schnazzy self-pubbed cover and I actually think the book looks interesting and promising.

 What works: If I can't have Where Treasure Hides for Fly Away Home's cover, I'd like something like this. The girl is halfway-hidden, I love the glimpse of a town behind, and the filter used in the photos tells me its vintage if everything else fails. Also, notice the variation of scripts and sizes. Lovely.
What doesn't work: Unlike the example above of Bethany Faith (thanks for your patience, Miss Faith. I'm sure you are a fine author and I tip my hat that you've actually got books in print), Michael E. Glasscock III has surrendered himself to forever being identified in my mind with P.G. Wodehouse characters.
How to fix it: Either he's aristocracy and thinks himself entitled to drawling on and on in the credits, or he ought to have chosen either a middle initial or the III. Having both seems pompous. Some people might also find the introduction of the purple tab up-top to be annoying. I rather like it, as it adds interest and lets you know that this is Book 2 of a series. But if it bothers your sensibilities, take it off.

Your thoughts? Do you agree with my observations of this sampling of covers? And how important is cover-design to you? Leave all your thoughts, mind-wanderings, and what-not in a comment below and I shall reply with promptness. I'd love to hear what you think are the most important (and/or bothersome) elements in the composition of a cover-design.