John Grisham, Lee Martin and isolation

If you are like me, you are staying home and trying to isolate yourself from the world where this pandemic is flying around like wildfire. This might be putting a knot in your creative writing. 

Glenda wearing a mask because of COVID 19

I spent many hours this past weekend watching and listening to famous writers online. I read John Grishams' early novels, legal thrillers, and watched the movies. I enjoyed the interviews online with him and his conversations with other writers like Stephen King. I heard them speak of how they came up with ideas for plots and characters. 

John Grisham is a down to earth friendly person who has the same values I have. His appearance in Amsterdam a couple of years ago is the most interesting video I watched. 

He was promoting his novel, The Guardians. Grisham’s main character here is a so-called “innocence lawyer,” a workaholic attorney-and-Episcopal-priest named Cullen Post. Post has trimmed his life down to the barest of essentials, living in spartan quarters above the nonprofit Guardian Ministries, his workplace in Savannah, Ga. The book focuses on Post’s investigation into the wrongful conviction of a black man named Quincy Miller who was set up to take the fall for the murder of a white lawyer in a small Florida town some 22 years before the opening of this story.

This story intrigues me because of a story I heard about a black man in Dougherty County Georgia when I was very young. While out hunting, the black man found the bodies of a man and a woman. The woman's husband had discovered they were having an affair, killed them, and dumped their bodies in the woods.

Everyone knew the husband was the killer, but the Powers that Be would rather blame the black man who was accused, arrested, and sent to prison for life for a crime he did not commit. He had no motive and did not even know the couple. 

This was in the days before the Civil Rights Movement and when black people had no voice and no rights in the justice system of south Georgia. It was said that the white man, the killer, was a father and well-thought-of in the community. I tried to research this trial but am not living there anymore and have no names, etc. I wonder if John Gresham would consider it a good story for one of his novels. 

If you need a push to write a piece of fiction, try this tip from Lee Martin, author and one of my favorite bloggers. 

Read it here. 

Writing classes at Tri-County Community College in September

I finished my August class at Tri-County Community College last night. This was one of those groups of people who seemed to bond right away. Their enthusiasm motivated each other. Their enthusiasm motivated ME. 

We had one man and seven women in the class. Our lone male stood his ground well but was not arrogant or combative as some men are when outnumbered by the opposite sex. He was a gentleman of the old school and a good writer. His subject was military life in Viet Nam, and he made us laugh.

Because everyone enjoyed this class and wanted to continue, we decided to hold another class beginning September 2, Tuesdays, 6 - 8 p.m. The title of the class is Write What You Like. That means we feature fiction, nonfiction, creative nonfiction, memoir, and poetry to give everyone a taste of it all. But for homework, students write what they like to write. 

I hope anyone who lives locally, in the area of TCCC, will call Lisa Thompson at the Community Enrichment department if you would like to attend four classes in September. The fee is only $29.00, but you must register before class time on Tuesday.

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A New Student at Writers Circle, Gene Vickers

Mt Zion

By Gene Vickers

The pastor was late and his tardiness allowed time for a sobering walk up the hillside. I didn’t need a
compass to determine which direction was East; all of the headstones and markers faced that way. Hope is ever present, even in cemeteries. A recent burial was indicated by fresh flowers and fresh turned earth; a new neighbor moving into what appeared to be a very old neighborhood. Graves dating from the early 1800s were everywhere. Markers were so old some names and dates were obliterated. Time, the very commodity each one residing here ran out of, is now so brazen as to take away their identities.

As I read names and dates I tried to imagine the era in which they lived and died. What, according to my memory of history, was happening in 1803. Eighteen thirty-five, eighteen fifty-six, and all of the other by-gone years.

As I stood in front of Ezekial Brown’s final resting place, my cell phone rang, breaking the silence of
my contemplation of eternity. I was somewhere between his birth in 1807 and his death in 1886. Why
did I answer my cell phone? Habit, I guess. It was someone doing marketing for a surveillance equipment company. After several no’s, they finally hung up. But Ezekial had closed the door and would not allow me back inside. I couldn’t blame him. Rude is rude no matter the century. I moved on.

Ezekial had a neighbor, a small neighbor, and I decided to read her poetry cut deep into the headstone: “Only five years with us she spent, till God for her His angels sent.” No doubt Elizabeth had brought lots of joy and happiness into her family that sixth day of January, 1929. The Stock Market would crash later that year. It was not the best of years to be born. But the crash of the market paled in comparison to January 25, 1934, when Elizabeth moved here permanently.

“Who wept for this child?” I thought.
“I did and still do,” came a voice into my mind.
I looked next door and there was her mother’s place. Both mother and daughter, side by side, separated only by a few feet of earth and eternity. The hillside seemed alive.
“Come here.”
“No, over here. Come over here and read my name.”
“Please say my name. I haven’t heard it in so long.”

I went to as many as I could, saying each one aloud and reading the birth dates. I purposely did not read the date of their death. Many of the stones were so old and worn I could not read their names. I felt their pain, the pain of being nameless and forgotten. I heard the pastor as he arrived in the parking lot. I could feel the disappointment of those whose names I had not read.

“I will come back,” I told them in my mind. “I will come and visit you again.”

SILVER BOOMER BOOKS ON SALE

Last year two of my poems were published in an anthology, On Our Own, Widowhood for Smarties published by Silver Boomer Books.

A few years ago, another of my poems was published in a Silver Boomer anthology, Freckles to Wrinkles. 

Silver Boomer books is having a special sale on these anthologies which have stories, memoir, and poetry by many good writers. I am particularly proud to be included in On Our Own, Widowhood for Smarties. This book makes an excellent gift for someone who has lost a spouse. 

See more about the sale below.

In anticipation of reorganizing our Abilene office space this fall, we are offering a great sale on our entire catalog of titles published through 2012. We need to reduce local inventory before moving. This is a very limited offer, good through July 31.

Not only are we offering great prices, all shipping is free within the U.S. Click on the sale link at silverboomerbooks.com to see the entire sale list.

This is a great opportunity to stock up your gift closet...have something on hand for every reader for every occasion. 

Books I'm Giving for Christmas

I imagine most writers give books as Christmas gifts. I know I do.

This year I am giving Maren Mitchell's non-fiction book, Beat Chronic Pain, An Insider's Guide. So many people I know live with chronic pain of one sort or another. I have lived with pain for years, and have tried a number of the techniques used by Maren, and found them successful. She has done the research for those who deal with daily pain and presents the results in her book. Go to Amazon.com to order it.

I am also giving a delightful memoir by Nadine Justice, I'm a Coal Miner's Daughter, But I Cain't Sang. This author writes with humor and with authenticity. Poppy George, her grandfather really did ride his horse into the church and up to the altar. She discovered her Aunt Becky's store in a little town in Turkey where she lived for several years. 

To order copies of this memoir, email: nadine@unitedwriterspress.com
I'm a Coal Miner's Daughter, But I Cain't Sang
by Nadine Justice
United Writers Press
ISBN 978-1-934216-83-5

I will give the latest anthology edited by Robert S. King and published by FutureCycle Press, American Society:

What Poets See. I am impressed by the quality of work in this book which deserves accolades and I plan to write a review of it and hope others will take the time to do the same. Read the excellent review on Amazon.com.

I dearly love For One Who Knows How to Own Land, poetry collection by Scott Owens. I will likely leave this in someones's stocking as well. 

My friend, Celia Miles, has a new book that will be out soon,  Sarranda's Heart, that is a sequel to Sarranda. Both books are historical fiction and women’s fiction—novels of a strong woman enduring and surviving the cruelties behind the battlefields, the home scene during devastatingly hard times of defeat and afterwards. Readers of Sarranda say they can't wait to read Sarranda's Heart. Give a copy of Sarranda this Christmas and follow with the sequel next year.

I recommend my poetry book, Now Might as Well be Then, and the anthology, On our Own, Widowhood for Smarties, which anyone will find to be eye-opening and should read even if they have not met yet with grieving the loss of a spouse or child. Read this anthology and be prepared.

What books are on your gift list? Which are on your wish list?

A Fall Writers' Retreat in the NC mountains

Have you heard of the Duke University Writers Workshop? The name is changed but the excellent writing instruction has not.

Table Rock Writers Workshop will be held September 17-21 at my favorite retreat, Wildacres, just off the parkway near Little Switzerland, NC. I am delighted that I will be going this year.

View from the large patio between lodges

They have some openings left, so visit their website, www.tablerockwriters.com

SHORT STORY CONTEST DEADLINE MAY 31

When we write our life stories, sometimes it is easier to write them as fiction. In fiction we can imagine or make up things that happened. We don't have to stick to the exact facts. Many novels are taken from real life experiences. Hemingway's novels are full of his actual adventures.

Below I have listed a place where you can enter a short story for a contest with Glimmer Train.

A short story is FICTION. A memoir is NOT Fiction. A memoir is true.

Try taking a true story you have written and rewrite it as a short story(fiction).

Upcoming deadline:

The Short Story Award for New Writers (yes, 1st place now wins $1,500 and publication!) closes May 31. See Writing Guidelines. Open only to writers whose fiction has not appeared (nor is scheduled to appear) in any print publication with a circulation over 5,000. Submissions must not have appeared in any print publication. Word count: most submissions run 1,500 to 6,000 words but can go up to 12,000.

Two More Classes Left

There are only two more classes in my six week Creative Writing Course at Writers Circle - Dialogue and Characterization. Both of these subjects are important to those who write personal essays or short stories.
It has been said that dialogue is the part of a novel, story or prose piece that the readers do not skip.

In the modern world of today, readers have been trainded by movies and TV shows to enjoy fast paced scripts filled with action, emotion, and interesting characters. If a story begins with long passages of description, no matter that the writing is excellent, readers of today will likely skip it and find the action or they will stop reading and go on to something else. Character-driven stories draw the reader in if the characters are clearly defined and appealling in some way.

A main character should not be perfect. We don't relate to perfect people. After all, none of us is perfect. We don't like for our characters to be all black or all white. We are all shades of gray with good and bad.
When I write about my father, I don't show  his bad traits only. He had good traits that people admired. His sense of humor was wonderful, his storytelling kept his audience on edge. But I can tell also about his temper and how he could hurt us with his sharp tongue. I can tell how he was insecure and jealous of my mother when he had no reason to be jealous at all. All of these traits made up a man.

Often we best show the character of a person by using dialogue. We can show his mood, his personality with dialogue. We can move a story along with dialogue. We don't want to use dialogue in such a way as to insult our reader. I mean we don't want to use a conversation between two people to remind the reader of something in the past he has already read or quickly cover action in the story in order to move on to another scene. And the use of punctuation in  dialogue is baffling to many experienced writers.

We do have room for one or two students in these last two classes,. Call 828-389-4441 to register.
The dates are July 20 and 27. fee: 18 dollars each.

EUDORA WELTY SAID IT BEST

"I am a writer who came of a sheltered life. A sheltered life can be a daring life as well. For all serious daring starts from within." --Eudora Welty

I have two lovely friends who grew up with normal loving parents. They suffered no hardships in life, and seem to have had no disfunctionality in their homes. Several times I've heard these friends comment on the sheltered lives they lived and because tof that, they sometimes wondered if their writing was as interesting as work by those who grew up poor, in a broken home, or who lost a parent as a child.
Neither of them had a sister who ran away from home and married at 14, or no one in their past lived in a trailer park with a one-legged man who drank all day, they did not grow up with a father who made moonshine, and no one in the family birthed a child in Wal-Mart. Unique incidents like those above find their way onto to the pages of best selling books these days.
But the writing of both my friends resonates with me, and I admire the humor and pathos in their work.
Like Welty, they use their imaginations, bring the daring from within, to create short stories and authentic poems.
To me, that is the fun of fiction - reaching down inside and bringing up situations that only I can create. I have a book idea that I hope one day to put on paper. The setting is a retirement community. The main characters are three elderly women, feisty and funny. That is all I'll say now, but hopefully one day I'll dig down inside and find my daring. And then I'll tell this tale.

Meanwhile, I ordered Joan Cannon's book, Maiden Run, and I am waiting to receive it. I love the cover and from reading the summary, I am sure it is a book I will enjoy reading.

A Short Story, Fiction for a change, not memoir

The following is a short story, not a memoir, I wrote for an online class I took last year. It was published in Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal.
The class leaders give great prompts or first lines that spark the imagination and I have loved taking this free class.

                                                        Confrontation
                                                       by Glenda Beall

It had been a hard day at the diner and my feet hurt as I made the long walk home. All I could think about was a shower and crawling into bed – my empty bed now that Charles had left. It had been six months, and I had come to enjoy climbing under my crisp sheets, my pink and white coverlet, having all the room to myself, the pillows piled up behind me while I watched reruns of "Golden Girls."

Now that Charles was gone, I ate an early dinner. He always wanted two or three drinks before we sat down. By then he was irritable. He complained about my cooking.
“This is overdone. Can’t you remember how I like my steak?”
My answer was always, “I’m sorry, Charles.”
“One of these days I’m gonna just stop coming home. I can eat better food in a diner.”
We’d been married ten years, and two were happy. The third year, I learned that Charles was cheating on me. I didn’t have the courage to leave him. I loved him and he promised me the affair was over. I believed him and dreamed of having a family together.
As I walked home along Madison Street, deserted as usual in the evening, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned my head and glanced back. A man in a dark overcoat followed about fifty feet behind me. He wore a hat pulled low over his forehead. A shiver ran down my spine, and I wondered if I should be afraid or if I was over-reacting. Charles accused me of over-reacting when I found an orange lipstick in his car. I knew it was not mine.

I walked faster, and it seemed to me the footsteps behind me grew faster as well. Someone is chasing me, I thought, and I am alone and helpless.

On either side of the street, the buildings were dark and closed. Should I run, or should I continue to walk normally? If I ran, would he be more apt to attack or if I continued to walk as though I were not afraid, would he continue to follow me? Maybe I’d reach my apartment before he made his play. My mind raced with possible actions I might take, but none of them seemed feasible. I felt sweat trickle down my sides.

If I still had the cell phone, I’d call 911, but my contract had run out. I stopped carrying it with me. When Charles left me and took his girlfriend to live in Brazil, I realized I barely had enough money left to pay the rent. Scouring classifieds in the newspaper, I found the job at Martha’s Grill, working in the kitchen. No one there ever complained about my cooking.

As I walked and thought of Charles’ cruelty, his dumping me for another woman, my anger mounted.
“Charles, if I die here on this street, it’s your fault. If this man attacks me, I’ll come back and haunt you and make your life as miserable as you made mine.”

Suddenly I realized I was talking out loud. I turned and stopped in my tracks. Defiance on my face and in my voice, I yelled at the man in black.

“What do you want? I have no money. I’m broke! You took it all. You left me with nothing. Here,” I held out my large black bag. “Take it! Take my bag with nothing in it but used Kleenex, cough drops.” I began pulling things from the bag. “Last week’s sale flyer from Bostwick’s Discount Foods. You never ate discounted food. You always had to have the most expensive of everything, didn’t you, Charles?” I screamed at the man who had stopped about ten feet from me. He stood like a dark statue outlined by the pale light of a street lamp.

Aggravated by his silence, I threw the handbag as hard as I could. It sailed like a huge black raven taking wing. It fell on the ground before him. I stood there refusing to run, refusing to give in again. I’d not lie down and roll over like a submissive bitch ever again – not for anyone. This time I’d fight. Adrenaline coursed through my body like a rushing river charging over its banks. I became Zena, warrior princess, ready to take on a stranger, or Charles, or whoever threatened me.

My self-pity, my fear, flew away like my flying handbag. In its place self-confidence sprang forth, confidence to challenge the unknown, to confront it head on. I crouched, breathing hard, filling my lungs to their depths, every muscle tightened, poised to fight for myself.

The black suited figure stood quietly for a moment, turned to his right, ambled across the deserted street and disappeared around the corner.

© Glenda Beall


If you have any comments about this story, like it or don't, I'd love to hear what you think.