Category Archives: Editor’s Log

Trombone

Lowrey Elementary School Band Director, Mrs. Johnson, came into our 6^th grade homeroom the first week of the new school year, wanting us to learn to play an instrument and join her band. Two friends and I envied a 7th grader beating drum-sticks on school steps, so we wanted to be drummers in the worst way. Mrs. Johnson saw me in her dimly-lit office next to the band room, offering a new world of opportunity. “Well, my dear”, she asked in a kindly voice over her horn-rimmed glasses, “What sort of instrument were you thinking of playing?”

“Well, Ma’am, I want to be a drummer ‘cause I saw a friend beating drumsticks and it sounded good.” The simple truth was best and she seemed unperturbed by a straightforward answer.

“Tell you what. I’ll loan you drumsticks and a pad for practice, but you have the lips to play trombone. I happen to need a trombonist and can lend you a trombone.” She assembled one before my eyes. “Here’s a mouthpiece for you to practice. Put your lips together and buzz into it like this. You’ll get the hang of it and I’ll see you next week.”

Even at my young age, I knew it was a trap. The trombone was longer than I was tall and a lot more expensive than drumsticks, but I couldn’t get out of seeing her the following week because I had to return the sticks, pad, and mouthpiece.

I asked my friends what happened with their visits to Mrs. Johnson. The first was still in a state of shock. “I have to take this cornet home along with the drumsticks and try them both out. She needs cornets, so she lent me this.” I was mystified my friend had given up so easily on drumming. The other was even less satisfied.

“She ran out of drumsticks because you guys took them all. I have a saxophone mouthpiece to try but I get the drumsticks next week. Dad says Charlie Parker is the world’s greatest jazz saxophonist. Who’s he, anyway?” By the time I got home, I figured Mrs. Johnson had all the drummer-trainees she would ever need. The drumsticks would be taken from my grasp, to be delivered to someone else, and I would be snookered into a lifetime of playing trombone if I wasn’t smart enough to find a way out.

Sitting around the kitchen table a few nights later, my mother said, “I had a call from Mrs. Johnson and she says you have a nice embouchure. Tommy Dorsey and Glenn Miller were the greatest American band leaders and trombonists ever, except Glenn Miller blew up in an airplane in World War II.”

I was appalled to discover the trap had been sprung. “Mom, all the mouthpiece does is make “Thrrrp” noises and spit comes out. I don’t have trombone lips; I have braces. Why can’t I play guitar? And what’s embouchure anyway?” Diversionary guitar tactics weren’t going anywhere, despite scary visions of trombonists blowing up in airplanes.

“Mrs. Johnson wants to see you tomorrow. She’s going to lend you one to try out.”

Mrs. Johnson had invaded my life to an awesome extent. Who was this Tommy Dorsey so enthralling my mother? I had serious doubts about satisfying her Tommy Dorsey needs but, within weeks, I was a struggling elementary school trombonist. In a few more years, I was an acceptable junior and then high school trombonist. In my senior year, our orchestra was in the play “Brigadoon” with a cast party after the last performance.

My father let me drive his new 1957 V8-powered Chevrolet to the party, a special privilege. However, a rat-faced band member challenged me to race his dad’s new 6-cylinder Dodge Coronet. We decided to race one block. At a signal, we took off and God was kind that night because we didn’t crash. At the end of the block, I had beaten him handily. In frustration, he gunned his car and turned left, his left front hitting the right front of our brand-new Chevrolet. We both got out, shaking. His father’s car had damage but, try as we might, we couldn’t find anything wrong with the Chevy. Then I realized the trombone had been lying on the back seat and was now on the floor.

Driving home, trembling all the way, I knew there must be some damage to the Chevrolet. If I hadn’t been talked into playing trombone by Mrs. Johnson years before, this never would have happened. Next morning, before I could look at the car, my father said, “It’s the strangest thing. I didn’t tell your mother but a few days ago I hit the right front bumper of our new car on a telephone pole. It pulled it out two inches, a lot of money to fix. But now it’s like it never happened. It’s back in place without a mark on it.”

I croaked, “Wow, dad, that’s amazing. They must have a new kind of steel that reforms into place if it’s hit. I’ve never heard of anything like that.” I went outside and checked the bumper in bright sunlight. There wasn’t a scratch or ding. Back in my bedroom, I found a slight dent in the trombone bell, but no one would ever know except me.

Witchy Woman

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Crows circled the house as my footfalls cracked branches and dirt sank between my toes. The old house was my safe haven, the darkness my hiding place when the light seemed too oppressive. Weeds clung to the worn slats of siding, vines crept up the walls, their small fingerless leaves reaching for the light and overgrown trees and foliage blocked the sun like living gravestones. I looked up to the ominous birds again, and asked, “Why do you circle crows? You shouldn’t be here.”

I walked faster, my steps uncharacteristically thoughtless. My worries were my own here in the dense woods, as I wandered outside the walls of my secret world. Then a tinkle of laughter filled my ears. I turned my head to listen closer. The delightful but abrupt sound echoed inside the abandoned house off its walls as I drew closer. I stopped, my throat closing in anger. This was my place. Unsheathing my dagger, strapped to my chest, I prepared to defend what was mine.

I listened for the sound again. Not hearing anything, I moved up onto the back concrete porch where the backdoor was wide open, broken from its hinges long ago. This time, I entered without a sound, my eyes scanning for any disturbance in the familiar landscape. I wondered what the humans were like who had lived here. Did they eat their meals together and talk about their day, or did they find the nearest pub to paw up the skirt of a wench. My long hardened fingers clenched and released.

I heard the laughter again, and sucked in a painful breath. I would have to find another place to go to for solitude. My shoulders slumped low, my fists clenched and my chin fell nearly to my chest, my mood slowly moving onto rage. I didn’t get very far. My name seemed to come to me on the wind from the next room, making my skin prickle and shiver with need.

“Silas Anastad,” the voice said joined by her tinkling laugh. “Do not leave.” The feminine timber singed my body. I turned to the voice unwilling to leave but my feet carried me closer.

“I’ve waited too long to meet you.” I smiled again as she spoke. “Come to me, male of the Sidhe.” That got my attention even more. How did the female know I was of the Fae?

“Because silly, I’m special.” She continued to laugh, the wonderful sound finally dropping off as I walked through the grand archway into the core of the dilapidated home. I held my weapon firm.

What greeted me was nothing less than astounding, the most beautiful human woman I’d ever laid eyes on. She seemed to glow from the inside out, her warmth radiating onto my dark, flesh, like a soft caress from her lips. I closed my eyes and felt it sink into my soul, opening a part of me that had been stuck in an abyss of hate. My body swayed forward.

Blinking my eyes open, I couldn’t help but stare. Her cerulean colored eyes were luminous. They glowed as if they were jewels filled with laughter. Soft plump lips, painted a glossy crimson, curled up in a mischievous smile. Her dark chestnut hair lay in soft curls winding down and over her full pale breasts that a black lace and blood red satin corset hugged so lovingly. Her lush hips flared out draped with more red satin accentuating her full figure so well, I wanted to grip those curves bring her hips flush with mine. When I trained my eyes on her feet, they were bare, her small delicate toes adorned with black paint on her nails, just as she’d done to her fingernails.

I cleared my dry throat, but the word stuck. I tried again. “Hello.”

She waved and looked at me coyly from under her lashes, her skirt twirling back and forth.

“Hello, Silas.” She stopped moving, her stature growing as she straightened to her full height, which was still much shorter than my six foot four frame, but no less commanding. She seemed luminous in her confidence, her age somewhere in her twenties, belying the number. It was amazing to watch the transformation from the shy but excited female to this more regal woman who stood before me.

I cleared my throat again, “How do you know my name?”

“I’ve seen you,” she tapped her temple, “up here, since I was very young.”

She was so beautiful, I lost track of what I was going to say. I shook my head to clear the confusion of her appearance, and finally asked, “But how? You’re human. How do you know about my kind?”

Her lips twisted up at one corner and her head tilted to the side, as if to tell me I was an idiot. I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I returned my dagger to my harness. She seemed so excited to see me, but I shook my head. “I don’t understand,” I said.

She started to twirl in a circle and hummed to a tune I couldn’t hear. I finally had had enough and quickly moved toward her, grabbing her by the shoulders, bringing her to a standstill, or so I thought. But she swept me up in her joy and my arms easily wrapped around her, one hand going to her little waist and the other gripping her nape at her hair, and we started to dance around the grand room. The music I hadn’t heard suddenly flit across the room as it transformed into something wild. The chandelier above us sparkled anew and the floor became a polished marble, the walls a rich tapestry of fabric, as the magic emanating from her touched us both, carrying us in the dance. Her head went back, she smiled through her laughter, and all I could do was hold on.

“Finally,” she kept saying, “Finally.”

When the music dwindled and we came to a stop, she looked up at me and the world came to a sudden halt as our heads came closer together. She lifted a hand to my face and brushed her slight fingers against my cheek, up, over my pointed ear, and down my jaw, stopping on my lips. Her fingers touched me, where her eyes focused on my lips, in a lazy back and forth motion. Her tiny pink tongue swept across her own lips making them wet and I groaned. My head bent down to hers and…

I snapped my head up, but still held her close, my hand twining in her soft hair, tipping her head further back, not loosening my controlled grip. “You’re a witch.” It was a statement of fact and she gave another one of her tiny coy smiles. But there was nothing really coy about her. Her eyes flared with sexual heat and power that made my body stir as only a males could. I leaned in again, her lips parting, her breath hot, and my blood pumping hard as I leaned in once again. “What’s your name?” I whispered so close I could almost taste her.

“Analise,” she said, her voice a shiver across my skin, as her body started to tremble with a need as strong as mine, her scent sharpening as I breathed her in.

“Who are you?”

“I am yours.”

Deadwood Writers Voices 1 Year Anniversary

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Editor’s Log 02/03/15

One year ago, the Deadwood Writers’ Voices opened its first issue. There was no fanfare. But it was another momentous step that the group took in its journey along the writer’s path. A group of brave authors committed themselves to publishing a monthly piece along the theme of writing. Backed by a dedicated volunteer crew of editors who work with the authors, we stepped into the unknown.

It’s not been an easy journey. We’ve navigated potholes and fallen trees blocking the way. Each challenge was, and continues to be, a learning opportunity for us. While there is much more work to be done, there are accomplishments to be celebrated.

Writing and Publishing Regularly

Commitment to writing on a regular basis is a common challenge expressed at different writer’s groups meetings and conferences I’ve attended. Anyone who attends a writer’s group can attest to hearing from others, or thinking it themselves, “I want to write every day and produce something monthly, but _______________…” Each of the contributors to DWV have set aside the excuses and submit work for monthly deadlines. Oftentimes, the writing goes through several revisions from conversations with their editor.

Increased Skills

Writing for a public audience has opened opportunities for these busy writers, who have other career obligations, to spend more time honing their skills. The results continue to grow with each post.

Writing More Frequently

We’ve gone beyond talking the talk to walking the walk. Many of these authors are writing pieces in addition to this monthly commitment. This has led to goal setting for 2015 where many are publicly committing to writing and contributing to other sources—in addition to maintaining their work with DWV.

Next Steps

As we shift to year two of DWV, the dialog has changed from let’s write and publish regularly to a desire to explore our voices beyond the topic of writing. We’re finding that we’ve much to say and even more to explore. This ranges from exploring different genres to marketing and tapping the power of social media for connecting DWV.

Beginning now, the topics that authors contribute is wide open. All genres and purposes are open. The Deadwood Writers’ Group has always been a learning community, in addition to providing feedback and reflection on participants’ work. This year, we have increased the number of regular contributors, adding new voices to the family. We will also have some guest writers to add their voices for enriching the experience. If you are interested, review our submission guidelines. Only a limited number of guest writers will be included this year.

Post comments on the articles, the authors will respond. Challenge them by offering topics you’d like to see them write about. Thank you for reading the Deadwood Writers’ Voices.

And Now, The 2050 POE Prize Winner For…

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By the middle of this century, the successful fiction novel is going to involve a lot more than just words-on-the-page. Already, graphic novels are becoming animated and eBooks are reading the stories aloud. It won’t be long before Harry Potter flies out of our tablet in a hologram while J. K. Rowling sits on our digital screen and read to us, her universal audience of one.

Actual printed matter — the stuff of ink and paper — in the future novel is going to be strictly cover art and internal illustrations suitable for framing. The Author’s contribution to this piece of art will be a caption of the very essence of the image itself; the words that created it. But, sadly, that’s the only text of the author’s we will read in 2050 ink. “Limited Edition” will lose all meaning, right along with “Remainder Bin.” Soon, “Deluxe Edition” will mean that very same artwork only signed by the author and/or illustrator(s), and also the animator(s), holograph artists and voice artists who will help produce the POE Prize (Pulitzer-Oscar-Emmy) winners in 2050. Print versions, where they exist at all, will be expensive pre-ordered Collector Editions bound in (by then) genuine Corinthian Naugahyde, or they will be biodegradable, print-on-demand paperbacks that, in a pinch, can double as toilet paper.

All of these added features take talents beyond what most of today’s writers possess, or want to possess. But collaboration of such talents will be the keys to the kingdom within a few years.

Why? Because it’s more entertaining! You can get a glimpse of the future now. Anomaly, has an app that produces short, holographic animations that jump off the pages of the printed book. It’s surreal. It’s half way to the future.

Unlike biographers and historians, fiction writers are strictly in the entertainment business. We don’t seek to teach or preach to a known audience, we must create our own. The better we entertain, the bigger the audience. Simple as that. Biographers and historians have no such concerns, but then, they don’t have their readers sitting on the edge of their chair, either.

Funny, if we look back in time we can clearly see our future. One hundred years ago, new fiction writers got their stories serialized in magazines first. Readers had to wait until the next issue for the next installment. The author was tasked with keeping their audience in suspense and caring enough about what happens next to buy the next issue. Both Arthur Conan Doyle and Edgar Rice Burroughs got their start this way, among many others. The complete novel version would come out the following year, or not, depending on magazine sales. Only successful novels were then followed by a movie or play adaptation.

First you’d get a little and like, then you’d get a lot and love it, then you’d get it all in-your-face but sometimes want to spit.

Blogs, tablets, home theater. Same play, different stage. Today, if we want the wider audience to swallow our story and feel satisfied, we have to write to resonate in every format, else what the author sees is not what the wider audience gets.

And that’s the rub. Often, the audio and visual versions of novels do not resonate with those who have already read the book. The author has to take control of his/her works before this point. Inflections can’t be out of place in tomorrow’s digital novel. Liberties can’t be allowed that change what the author intended for so-called creative license. Authors had little care in the matter 100 years ago, when fiction was still in its adolescence. By the time the movie or play adaptation came out, they’d long since moved on, high on their next novel.

Only a handful of authors thought of their works in terms of perpetuity. Edgar Rice Burroughs did. Arthur Conan Doyle did not. Both were hallmark visionaries, yet history tells their personal tales vastly different.

Some of Conan Doyle’s adaptations have been spectacular, like the BBC’s Sherlock Holmes series of several years ago that starred the late Jeremy Brett. Doyle would have been proud of that one. But most other renditions of the world’s first forensics sleuth — and there are many — do Doyle a disservice, or at least the author’s intent, leaving the viewer who hasn’t read the original stories to wonder what all the fuss was about 100 years ago. The original Sherlock Holmes was a bipedal bloodhound, everything Doyle wrote centered on that singular aspect. It was Holmes’ superior intellect and cunning methods of deduction that kept readers clamoring for more. Yet, modern adaptations brush Holmes’s methodical pace, his creative thinking, and sometimes even his flair for the dramatic ending under the carpet. For the last 50 years, contemporary stories have centered on Sherlock’s lack of love life (Irene Adler; The woman in A Scandal in Belgravia), or his fetish with cocaine–legal at the time– in (The Seven-Per-Cent Solution). If you’d only read or watch the newer versions you’d think Holmes was just an insensitive, bi-polar drug addict with sexual hang ups, and Doyle’s estate has been unable to stop any of it.

Edgar Rice Burroughs, on the other hand, controlled all aspects of his writing: creating, publishing, distribution, artwork, and adaptations into other formats, by mid-career. Tarzan hasn’t changed one iota. Burroughs was honored with a U.S. postal stamp to commemorate the 100^th anniversary of Tarzan, and the ape-man was still as handsome as he was in 1912. Some adaptations have been laughable, true, but Tarzan has gone agelessly into a second life in the funny papers and on the silver screen, and license was sold by Burroughs and his estate for every one of these versions. His estate enjoys that foresight to this day with Andy Briggs’ “New Adventures” of Tarzan stories, and a new, subscriber-based, weekly online comic strip of the man who had a six pack long before Budweiser.

Will fiction authors have the vision to get collaboration right this time around?

Will the Author — the Creator of the very essence of the story itself — finally get to conduct the orchestra in this land of digital perpetuity? Or just continue to play first violin?

Depends on what tale we tell I suppose, and how well we show it to the widest audience.

April’s Blog: Show Don’t Tell. It’s the first rule any new novelist learns, but it means more than just opening up the reader’s eyes. Next month, we’ll look at how writing to the reader’s other senses can often paint a more vivid picture than the eyes can see, and how that raises the temperature of today’s suspense novels.

Editor’s Log: A Beginning…

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Editor’s Log 02012014

Every beginning starts somewhere. In the case of the Deadwood Writers’ Voices, it was September of 2002 at a Barnes & Noble in Northville, MI. The founder, Dave led the group until April of 2004. At that time, the group was known as the writer’s group that met at Barnes & Noble once a month from 7-9 p.m. When I joined in January of 2003, there was a solid core of 5-6 members. When Dave moved from the area, he appointed me the next facilitator, probably due to my experience of leading two writer’s groups prior to my move into the area.

In my experience with writers’ groups, there is one leader. That person makes all of the decisions, although to be honest there are few to be made when the purpose is to share and discuss each other’s writing. I wanted this group to be different, and so did it’s members. Starting with that first meeting we decided to add a learning component to our meetings, and slowly we grew into a learning community. Currently we have a membership over 30. By early 2004, we named ourselves, The Deadwood Writers.

Our mission…

Support all writers to achieve the writing goals that they strive to accomplish.

Our unofficial motto…

Keep writing!

Our learning focus…

Author’s craft, marketing and, publication

We’ve had authors and publishers, such as J.A. Konrath, Aimee Carter, and Marion Nelson Publishing & Marketing, talk to us about craft and publication. From the many learning experiences, members generated the ideas that have dramatically evolved the group’s understanding about writing and publication. In our 12th year, the Deadwood Writers’ Voices is one such idea.

Deadwood Writers Voices will be a collection of writers exploring the multi facets of writing and publication. Consider this site as our invitation to join our expanded writers’ learning group. The posts range from exploring ideas to being reflective, instructional, or creative. Diverse voices with a wealth of experience are waiting to be revealed. All perspectives and questions are welcome as we can all learn from each other.

Welcome to the Deadwood Writers Voices…