J. S. Colley

They turn their heads

When I drive by

In my little red car

I toss them a smile

And they high-five

And shoulder bump

As if they’ve just won

Some great victory

*

You don’t understand,

My husband says,

You never have

Yes…I do

I want to say

But what good is it?

Except for a lark

A game with passers-by

So I stow it

In the back of my mind

Because I know

Whatever it is

It won’t last forever

And I’m afraid

When the time comes

I won’t want to let it go

NOTE: Coming soon are my thoughts on The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern. Still trying to sort my thoughts out on that one so I can sound astonishingly profound rather than inspidily obtuse. Hopefully, I’ll get it straight soon.

Until then, I thought I’d post the first chapter of my new WIP (work in progress for you non-writers), as I haven’t posted anything here in quite some time. This is a previous work that I’m converting to first person narrative. Fairly unedited. Be warned.

The Ancestors © 2011

Chapter 1

It was the search for my ancestors that lead me to it. And, in a sense, I did find them, but just not how, or who, I expected.

I came back to the place of my birth on the headwind of a late spring storm — the worst kind of tempest. For two days it snowed in a diaphanous curtain of white, until the snow was heaped in great caches against doors, and gathered precariously in the corners of window sashes; the snow drifted across the mountains, floated down into the valleys, blew across the flats in bilious mounds of white, and collected on the banks of the river; it spread like a downy blanket over rooftops, and clung to the rough surface of brick buildings; it swept across roads, and clung to the eyebrows and lashes of the few intrepid travelers who dared to venture outdoors.

I found myself trapped on top of the mountain, in the doublewide trailer of my estranged, and recently deceased, father. It was more comfortable than I had imagined and even provided a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains, but it was too close to the cemetery for my liking. It was a family cemetery, but those lost souls were still unfamiliar to me and it gave me no comfort. I had come to bury my father, but there would be no funeral until after the storm, I knew. My father’s sudden demise offered me a chance to further my research and, for that small benefit, I was grateful.

It was the snow that forced me underground, or should I say, into the cellar to look for food. I had rummaged through all the cupboards and cabinets in the trailer, but they reflected a drunk’s priorities and neglect; all I found was a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam. Not only was there no food, my father had died with the propane tank almost empty. I soon had to make my way to the old homestead, as Owen Bradley, the real estate lawyer, had called it. He told me my father often rented it out to the occasional hunter, or the overflow of tourist from the Rhododendron Inn during the annual Bluegrass Festival. It sat a few hundred yards to the east. I could see the chimney jutting invitingly above the snow. Swirls of snow curled above it like wisps of smoke.

After I tunneled my way through the drifts, I stood on the porch, breathless and sweating, and hesitated, not knowing what to expect. When I finally nudged open the door to the old house, what I saw did not displease me. I swept the tight beam from my small flashlight across the space in front of me. Straight ahead, through a narrow opening, I could see a long rectangular table surrounded by chairs. A mounted deer head hung on the opposite wall from where I stood. I quickly jerked the light away from the grotesque thing with its large accusing eyes. I could swear they stared back at me. To the left was a well-used fireplace and beyond was a bedroom with it’s own fireplace that shared the one chimney. I walked into the dining area and noticed another bedroom to the left. To the right of the long table was the entrance to a kitchen with an old-fashioned wood-burning stove situated close to the back wall, and there was a red water pump next to the sink. The kitchen held a modern refrigerator, but I didn’t take the time to open it. The electricity had been out for two days; whatever might have been forgotten was surely spoiled by now. The house was not large, but every room was adequate and functional.

Tracing my way back through the dining room, I saw a door on the back wall that opened onto the yard, and, on a small table next to it, sat a propane lantern. Luckily, it still had plenty of fuel, and there were several packets of matches in the drawer underneath. I lit the lantern and immediately went to start a fire. When I first entered the house, instead of a pile of wood, I had noticed a large bucket of coal on the slate apron of the fireplace. It took me more than a few tries to get it started, and, even then, I wasn’t sure if the fire had taken hold. The coal produced little flame but seemed to be generating a lot of heat. The black chunks emitted an occasional ticking that sounded strange to my ear, but there was something about the smell wafting up from the burning coals that seemed vaguely familiar. Where had I smelled it before? It fired a memory synapse deep in my brain that left me uneasy. I could feel the black coal dust heavy on my face. I knew that if had a mirror, I would laugh at the sight of my own image. But I could only see my hands. They were filthy.

Suddenly, I craved water. Not only for cleaning my hands, but to quench my thirst. I knew a person could live a long time without food but only a short time without water. With all that snow outside, I would have plenty of it, as long as the coal held out. Eating cold snow if you were already freezing wasn’t a good idea.

After I melted a sufficient amount by resting a large kettle near the fire and making several trips outside with another, I found soap and cleaned my hands and face the best I could. Then I took the lantern and went back into the kitchen in search of something to eat. Luck was not with me. Again, I found nothing, despite a thorough search. I went to stand by the fireplace and felt grateful, at least, for it’s warmth, when I spied something through the window jutting out of the snow near the west side of the house.

I was sweating again by the time I’d cleared all the snow from the door of the root cellar. What I had seen from the window was the small roof-like structure that protected the trap door. I pulled the ring to lift the wooden covering with my left hand and held the lantern in my right. In the small circle of light, I saw an opening in the ground, with rough planks set into the earth for steps. And a thick curtain of cobwebs. I let the trap door flop backwards with a loud thud, slashed through the cobwebs with my freed hand, and stepped carefully down into the dank darkness.

It is what I find here that begins my real journey. The one I never expected. Hidden within the damp dirt walls of the cellar is the key to mankind’s existence. But I didn’t know it then. I only thought I’d found some mementos of my family’s past.

I started a careful search to the left of the steps and soon discovered a large mason jar hidden in the back of a deep niche. When I brought it nearer to the lantern, instead of preserved food, I saw papers and trinkets through the grimy glass. I found it curious and couldn’t wait to examine the contents. Even though I was hungry, I tried to twist off the lid, but it wouldn’t budge. Resigning myself that exploring the contents would have to wait, I continued my search. At the back of the cellar, I found two rows of mason jars this time filled with apples and green beans, which looked luscious to me. I placed a container in each of the pockets of my parka, and held tight the third larger jar as I made my way back to the house. Next time I would bring a basket, or bowl, so I can carry more, I decided.

Once in the house, I ignored the two jars filled with food but, instead, turned my attention to the other. I pried open the lid, leveraging the tines of a sturdy fork under the rim to help break the seal, and spilled the contents onto the dining room table. Spread out in front of me were letters, correspondence written during the Civil War between my great-great-grandparents. I recognized their names from the little I had been told or had read while researching my ancestors. At first I found it odd that these items would be stored in the root cellar, rather than in an inlaid wooden box, or some other special holder. Then I saw the prudence of it: my grandmother preserved their history in the same way she preserved a harvest. What safer place for buried memories?

Scattered among the letters were other mementos, meaningful to the two of them in ways that I could never understand. I picked up one curious object and twirled it between my fingers. Even then, my ancestors must have worked in the coalmines, I thought.

Suddenly, my hunger overtook my curiosity. I abandoned the contents of the keepsake jar, and turned my attention to the canned food instead. Back in the kitchen, I pried open the jar of apples and pulled a wedge out with my fingers. It was delicious, if cold. I was now so famished that I didn’t take the time to warm the fruit but stood pulling wedges dripping with juice out with my fingers, until I had to grab the fork sitting on the counter to reach the contents. I ate until I’d had my fill.

It was soon dark, and the house that seemed so warm and inviting at first now seemed like a brooding animal. It creaked and groaned; banged and whined. The corners grew darker and took on a dangerous feel. Logically, I knew that there was no one lurking in the shadows. The snowstorm held back the good intentioned as well as the bad. But I was starting to see the incredulity of my situation – far from home with no cell phone service, alone in a strange house and snowed in by, what even I recognized, as possibly the biggest storm of the century. I had packed what was left of the Jim Beam in my backpack when I first made my trek to the house, and thought about taking a swig of it to wash down one of the Xanax I always kept in my purse, but thought better of it. Instead I washed the pill down with a glass of melted snow.

The pill did its magic and that night I slept peacefully in the living room on the couch. Luckily the evil-eyed deer was hidden from my vision. In the morning my mood had brightened. The snow had stopped falling, but the ground — and everything above — was covered in a thick white layer as far as I could see. It played with the cloudless sky, creating an effect like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I stepped off the porch into the yard and raised my arms, as if I could touch the deep blue dome that seemed to cover the globe like a lid.

I wondered, then, if Owen Bradley would remember I was up on the mountain, alone. How anyone could rescue me from the storm, I had no idea.

Today my life was touched by a man I did not know.

I often have occasion to drive by a veteran’s memorial park when I have errands to run or family to visit. A week ago, I noticed yellow police tape encircling the small parking area of the memorial. I knew something bad had happened. Either some poor soul suffered a heart attack or someone had committed suicide. I spotted a short, odd-looking fellow with a large black rectangular case walking toward a car. Forensics. My guess was a suicide.

Today, while reading the local newspaper, I couldn’t help but cry as I read an article that proved my assumption was correct. Did this man have any idea how profoundly he might touch someone even after death? Like George Bailey in A Wonderful Life, we never realize when or how our lives will touch others, even in a small way.

I often wonder if the hysterical lost boy I helped in the book store will remember me when he grows older and if he, in turn, will have an opportunity to help another frightened, neglected child; or if the driver I honked my horn at will remember the impatient woman behind him and be more patient with a thoughtless driver the next time he encounters one; or if the woman I gave an extra coupon in the grocery line will someday offer the same small gesture to someone else; or if something I’ve written will influence a person in a positive way without me intending it or even thinking it possible.

We never how the little things we do in our lives will impact someone else.

I didn’t know the man in the parked car. He might not have been a nice person at all. But I choose to think of him as a lost soul. No matter what his story was in life, he just needed a soft touch or a warm hand to hold in his final hours. I wish I could have been there for him, even if it was only to give him one last friendly smile.

The little memorial park is picturesque. A nice place to sit, with flowers and shrubs and, of course, the flagpoles and granite memorial as the central focus. A swift creek cuts through one corner. A perfect little spot.

I ask myself: Why here? Why this parking lot? I have a dozen scenarios flicker through my brain. But I will never know the truth.

Every time I drive by, I’ll think of those men and women the park was meant to memorialize but I’ll also think about the man sitting alone in his older model sedan, parked precisely between the lines. I’ll think about the depth of his sorrow and wonder if he ever imagined someone he didn’t even know would shed a tear for him.

I don’t judge. If we are all honest with ourselves, we’ll admit to being “there” at some point in our lives. Thinking about the worth of it all. I don’t know what sends someone over that infinitesimal edge, but I understand the pain that leads us all to think about it on occasion.

In the end, I think our desire as human beings isn’t so much about being remembered as it is a hopefulness that our presences here was somehow worth it. That through our mere existences something else was made manifest.

So, as a tribute, I’m going to write something – a short story or perhaps a poem – to honor: The man I did not know.

The publishing industry has changed over the last few years. There are many events that made this shift possible. One of them is the publishing industry’s acceptance – some might even say, embrace – of the self-published book. Many traditional publishing houses even created their own website to help in this effort.

Of course, the advent of the personal computer and the Internet were the ultimate catalyst, as it was for many changes in society. But there are two other more recent and major events responsible for the change in publishing: the advent of the digital reader and the devastated economy. The publishing industry has been hit hard just like the rest of business in the United States. Borders Books just went out of business. The brick and mortar stores are suffering and traditional publishing houses are losing money. They no longer want, nor can afford, to take a chance on an unknown author. So they shifted part of their focus to making money helping the writer publish his or her own work – something to keep their bottom line out of the red. But it isn’t only the publishing houses offering these services; many entrepreneurs saw the opportunity long ago. Those who saw a niche market made printing and delivering of either “dead tree” or digital books convenient and almost effortless through new innovations.

The next obstacle for those writers who wanted to forgo the drudgery and uncertainty embedding in the traditional route to publishing was the question of where to sell his or her products. The same Internet businesses that provided services for self-publishing were also waiting in the wings to provide a venue for their sales – businesses like Amazon, Smashwords and Lulu.com. Everything that was once difficult became easy.

It is the last problem that is proving the most difficult for the self-published writer: marketing.  

The hushed talk among self-published authors these days – and those of us who are about to self-publish ­– is no longer about acceptance or about the “how to” but about reviews.

Without a traditional publishing house’s marketing budget behind us, we only have ourselves – and possibly our friends and family ― to shout the praises of our work.  The one way our friends and family can help is to write a review. Without reviews our work will never get to the top of the very large heap on places like Amazon. There are a few other marketing options. Book trailers have become very popular, for instance, and there is always Facebook and Twitter. But what the self-published writer covets more than anything is positive reviews. It is our ego boost; our vote of confidence; our selection from the slush pile.

Self-published writers like to help each other. It is a large and supportive community. We beta read before publication. We write reviews after. On the surface writers “swapping” reviews appears somehow unethical. But a friend of mine said (and I’m paraphrasing big time here) that, in the traditional publishing business, one writer praising another is as long-standing and entrenched as the world’s “oldest profession.” Looking at the books on my bookshelf, I’d have to agree. One author providing an endorsement on the book flap of another author seems fairly common.

So, what’s the difference? Do we really believe that these established and well-know authors weren’t either paid or coerced into giving a positive statement to use for marketing purposes? Why should the self-publishing industry be held to a higher standard? I would argue that one reason is that self-published books don’t go through the rigors of acquisition, where the not-up-for-prime-time manuscripts are pulled out like so many chickweeds. But, if self-published writers support each other by only giving good reviews how will the reader ever know what is worth their time? Will they start to distrust all self-published books and stop buying?

That’s the big question, of course. But I think there is an answer and it might be simpler than you think.

As evidence, I give you a review by W. J. Rosser  of Fred Limberg’s novel, Ferris’ Bluff. Mr. Rosser points out the good things in the novel and discusses, in his opinion, one small weakness – which didn’t deter him from enjoying the book any more than it would have had this been a traditionally published book. He deemed it a worthwhile read – a very worthwhile read. He didn’t have to call it the next Great American Novel. And I’m sure Mr. Limberg didn’t expect, nor want, him to. (I’m not suggesting Mr. Limberg even knew Mr. Rosser was going to write a review, just to be clear.) He seems quite happy with what was said about his book. This is a good review because it rings true. It sounds honest. And it is.

Superlatives and all-glowing praise always raises a red flag. Not even the greatest writers of our day, or those from the past, have all positive reviews. We hope for a good review but we need to put on our Teflon vests and realize we might have to take a few bullets. The pros do. If we want to play with the big boys, then we have to take the good with the bad.

Is there anything wrong with the first couple of reviews acting as an “endorsement” from one writer to another? I’m not really sure anymore. At first I thought this was just plain wrong; now I’m having doubts. Unless you feel all marketing and advertising is wrong (which might be left for another argument) then how is this different? It is one of the few tools the self-published writer has. If we consider the first few reviews as a “book jacket endorsement” and state “fellow writer so-and-so says this about…”, then it isn’t very different than the way traditional houses do business. And do you really think they don’t have their own staff of “professional” reviewers that pad the comment section with positive statements? I wasn’t born yesterday, and neither were you.

Here is a quote from the blog of Pete Morin, a fellow writer and acquaintance of mine:  “Even the New York Times Bestseller List suffers its own peculiar brand of artifice. When you ask an entire industry of publishing professional [sic] how the NYT defines a bestseller and none of them can give you the same definitive answer, you have to suspect something is rigged. When a novel appears on the list and is on the bargain table two months later, you just know it.”

 Perhaps if the self-published industry came up with a generally accepted policy – an “honor code” of sorts – that once a writer has a few endorsements then he or she should expect to receive more discerning reviews from their fellow writers.  

What, I except, we are all afraid of is retaliation. If I give a book a less than stellar review, will the other writer be honest about my book or will they be spiteful? This is human nature. I’m not suggesting we all start to give overly harsh reviews, just perhaps be a little more honest. What’s wrong with giving a book a 3 star review on Amazon? It means “I liked it.” And for 99 cents, “I liked it” would be enough to make be purchase the book.

I don’t know the answer. Personally, if I didn’t feel pressured (either self-induced or from outside forces) to only say positive things when I left a review, I might be inclined to leave more. After all, it is MY reputation as a discerning reader (how can I be a good writer if I praise books that don’t hold up?) that is on the line. I don’t want to be known as someone who gives false reviews.

There is another point I would like to make. I’m not suggesting fellow writers need or should leave overly harsh reviews on self-published books. Why? Because traditionally published books have, supposedly, gone through the rigors of being accepted for publication. They have been selected by industry experts who are “authorities” on what is worthy and what isn’t. They have been given the industry’s seal of approval. Therefore, I feel it is perfectly acceptable to hold them to a higher standard. When I review a self-published book, I’m rating it on that scale –of what is the best within the self-published community. A self-published book might be as good or even better than a traditionally published book. If it is, then it should get high praise indeed. But if it isn’t, we don’t need to be as highly critical either.

In the end, the phrase “I don’t know” seems appropriate. I don’t know what the answer is. Each individual will have to decide for themselves what is ethical and what isn’t. The general public is pretty savvy. They have ways of filtering out the chaff from the wheat. Perhaps we don’t need to worry so much about honest reviews but just making our work as good as it can be and getting it out there.

I am compelled by the notion of rhythm in my writing and how it helps evoke a mood. To create rhythm, I try to vary my sentences lengths and, yes, even sometimes resort to the use of sentence fragments. Gasp! This is often pointed out to me when I send my work out to be critiqued. When this first happened, I rushed to edit them out, even though I had intentionally used them. But I soon realized the mood, or feeling, I was trying to create suffered. I then went in search of justification for my use of sentence fragments, as I know I have seen them in many novels — some of which were award winners!

As in any case where a writer endeavors to break the rules, a full understanding of the “rule” and a conscious intent to break it is often the difference between success and failure.

I defend my limited use of sentence fragments as an acceptable way of creating rhythm. At the end of this blog, I have cited internet postings in support of my stance. (Some of these examples I saved from long ago and I have lost the original reference. I apologize and give full credit to the authors.)

What do you think?

Rhythm as Verbal Music

From: http://www.grokdotcom.com/rhythmandpacinginwriting.htm

One definition of rhythm is: an alternating recurrence of similar elements. Songs have rhythm; jokes have rhythm in their timing and delivery. Good copywriting has rhythm that is revealed in the variation of sentence length – and it is precisely this sort of rhythm that gives your reader a sense the copy “sounds” compelling.

When you consistently write sentences that are all the same length, your writing develops a plodding predictability. To avoid this, mix up your sentence lengths: a short sentence, a long sentence, a long sentence, a medium sentence, then another short sentence. This last sentence will carry some impact, because the reader wasn’t expecting it. Another short sentence might reinforce the impact. Then a long one. Give your reader the experience of rhythm in variety.

Interestingly, there is a “rhythm in three.” When you incorporate a series of things into a sentence, three seems to be the magic number. It has a nice rhythm – we hear it as complete and satisfying. “We leap into the boat, setup the sail and venture out onto the sea.”

So plan your words to create just the right pace, then give it a good beat.

***

Varying Sentence Length – Repetitive writing can seem robotic and dry.  Especially when you write an informative paper, you may feel tempted to state the facts, one after another, in the same fashion.  To avoid distracting the reader with repetitive sentences and to add rhythm and variety to your sentences, make sure you vary sentence length.  Remember that there are different ways to vary the length of your sentences.  Look for ways to combine sentences or to stylistically cut them short (yes, you can use fragments).  Follow long sentences with short ones that help to drive your point home.

***

3. Sentence fragments are a good thing.

Forget your fourth-grade English teacher. Forget that obnoxious green line in Microsoft Word telling you your grammar is wrong. In copywriting, as well as in many other forms of writing, sentence fragments are a lifesaver. Those fragments allow you to quickly and easily vary your sentence length. Plus, they can help your writing sound conversational. People talk in sentence fragments. Therefore, reading sentence fragments gives people the impression you’re talking to them — in your own voice and your own style.

So what’s a sentence fragment? A sentence that isn’t complete. It’s missing something — noun, verb, both. It’s not a complete sentence.

Rhythm in writing is much more than just what’s going on with your sentences. (Not that we’ve covered everything that goes wrong with sentences.) But it’s a good place to start.

***

“While sentence fragments are technically incorrect, their judicious use can be used to stress important points in your plot or characterization. Short sentences can do the same but both need to be used with care or they result in stilted, hard to understand prose.”

***

“You have probably been told never to use sentence fragments in your writing. That’s certainly true in very formal writing, but expert writers know how to use sentence fragments and often do.

***

3)  Vary sentence length and type. Variety will keep the reader interested not only in the story, but in what you have to say.  If every sentence has the same feel to it, the same length and way of unfolding, you’ll lull your reader to sleep, no matter how interesting the subject matter.  When used judiciously, sentence fragments can be invaluable.  They create emphasis by breaking up the flow, much like inserting a stop sign at an intersection. Short sentences amid longer ones accomplish the same feat.  You’ll know you have a good sense of variety when the editing of a single sentence forces changes upon all the sentences in the paragraph.

As God as my witness, I will never go hungry again!

Some writers might argue that theme isn’t an essential attribute of a novel, but I’m not one of them. I’m not suggesting you can’t write a novel without a theme, you can, I just don’t believe it will be as satisfying.

A theme is an underlying idea that takes otherwise disparate events and binds them together. It adds dimension. The theme doesn’t have to be profound, but it does have to ring true to the writer.

Even thrillers or mystery novels are made better by having an underlying theme. Take, for instance, The Bourne Identity. What makes this thriller stand out from others? The plot for one, but I would suggest it is also because of the underlying themes.

One theme of Robert Ludlum’s book might be redemption; here is a highly trained assassin who questions the morality of what he has been trained to do. There is also the theme of the apparent evils of unchecked power. Without a theme as a binder, a novel becomes just a series of events presented in a, hopefully, interesting arrangement. But the events of a novel must add up to something, otherwise, while it might be a satisfying read, it doesn’t stick with you for very long.

Theme is hard for some to grasp. It is an abstract concept, not something you can easily put your finger on. One might not be able to immediately define when it is present but it is definitely something one notices if it isn’t—at least I do. Why should I care about what you are telling me? I ask. If you can’t give me a good enough reason, I might just say, so what?