About This Blog

Hello writers and those of you who love books! Welcome to the Grassroots Writer’s Guild–a place where you can discover exciting new authors and books, read free sample chapters, and purchase titles that appeal to you for under five dollars each! Please read our About GWG page to the right for more information on who we are and what we’re all about. 

Feel free to comment on any and every page and post on this site, that’s what we’re here for–to provide a direct connection between writers and readers.  GWG’s founding members, Connie Kirchberg and Julia Simpson, will post essays and various other dribble on this home page as they see fit. Topics will vary greatly, but always in some way, shape, or form, they WILL relate to the business of writing.  You have our promise.

So, sit back, relax, and start clicking away on the links to the right. You’ll see that both Connie and Julia decided to implement a “get to know the writer” approach in their sales technique that includes  personal experiences and family photos. They discuss the ideas behind their books and share their experiences regarding agents and traditional publishing. You may decide to go with a less intimate approach. The point is to figure out a marketing strategy that’s right for you and implement it.  Remember, the person best equipped to sell your book(s) is the person who knows and cares the most about it. And that would be you.

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Smart Phone Etiquette for My Writing Students

picture by Aubrey Beardsley

 

My dear writing students,

Every semester, I have the great pleasure of making new acquaintances, many of whom turn into friends. I lift the bar very high, I know, in an academic sense. Most of you do everything in your power to comply with my expectations.  Those of you who stick with me until the very end are pleased, perhaps even amazed, at your acquired prowess in an understanding of the entire writing process. I am proud of that and would do nothing in the world to take that away from you. Indeed, I try to use the valuable remaining hours we have together to cement that gained knowledge and to add to it.

Technology, as you know, has changed things in the classroom. I do not bar smart phone usage, although I have particular guidelines for you to follow that I express to you both audibly and in writing (via the syllabus) at the beginning of the semester. I completely understand if someone forgets to turn off a ring tone from time to time.  As you know, I forget too. I understand that some of you have sick or impatient relatives waiting for you to get out of class, who might even need you at a moment’s notice. I understand that some of you nurture friends. Therefore, I am not going to create a scene in class when you glance, for a few seconds, even a minute, at your smart phone to see if there are any pressing messages.

I do not even quibble about smart phone usage during an in class essay. Forgive me for saying this, but I very much doubt anyone will be able to send him or herself a paper that is much better than that which will be written in class. If you send yourselves a perfect paper and you are not a perfect writer, that will catch my notice. We have talked about that, haven’t we? I know you rely on places like dictionary.com to look up the spelling of words.

I mentioned friendship. At the very least, I have a teacher’s affection and concern for my students. I do not want to pull you down or humiliate you, certainly not in class, nor truly after class. What purpose would that serve? None.

But I know you would be humiliated were I to ask you, by name, to please put your smart phone away. When I am having students read out from a power point on commas or semicolons, some of you are glued to your smart phones. Permit me to say that those who are glued to their smart phones are still making dozens of punctuation mistakes per paper. I am pretty sure those same people are not surfing the web on their own in order to study grammar, at home.

More upsetting still is that the students who tend to be glued to their smart phones, as if they had been hypnotized, Svengali style, are not my younger students. My younger students seem to understand that a few seconds of smart phone perusal is all that is acceptable in a class. Perhaps their high school teachers trained them; I don’t know. Some of my older students, however, have to be hovered over. It is embarrassing to me to have to treat those students like children. I know how embarrassed you would be if I addressed you directly, and you usually walk out of class too swiftly for me to bring the problem to your attention after class, out of earshot of everyone.

Don’t think the younger students don’t notice what you are doing–ignoring the lesson and ignoring the teacher, who is trying to dish up a bland meal with as little tedium as possible. (If you are that bored, leave. I notice your absences too, but at least it is agreed all around that absence impacts the grade.)

For the sake of the students who have good smart phone etiquette, I am writing this post. I want them to know I appreciate their good manners, their consideration to what they want to learn and to me. I want them to know I do not “let” older students get away with less-than-gracious behavior for the sake of some caste system that is age-based. I do not honor the mature over the young.

I honor those who act mature, for that is the surest badge of maturity, one everyone should wish to wear.

The Incongruity of Books in a Writing Class

Spring Break signals the end of the school year for most students and no teachers. The smarter writing teachers have already graded their research papers. I am of those who grant the mercy  of an extra week of time to stressed-out, indecisive students. However, I have come to realize the term “research” is anathema to them. They would rather fall out of a ride at an amusement park or undergo dental surgery. My mercy helps no one. The writing of  papers is simply postponed. You would think I might have learned that by now.

Stubbornness is one of the doors to the house of Stupidity, where I dwell, on the street of Hope, in the city of Delusion. I have stubbornly insisted on mercy just as I have stubbornly insisted on a book list. The book list includes an anthology of philosophical and political writings that I think is amazing. It is titled A World of Ideas, edited by Jacobus and put out by Bedford St Martin.  I tell myself that students will have the chance to become acquainted with Aristotle, Frederick Douglass, Plato, Margaret Mead, Henry David Thoreau and other great writers. Aside from those who enjoy the moving account given by Douglass of his escape from slavery (thanks in great part to learning to read), I would estimate that 70 percent of the students actively enrolled in the class from the outset not only looked upon this anthology with exceeding wariness and distaste, but perhaps a full 50% actively loathed it.

I believe the books I have assigned, the glorious A World of Ideas being front and foremost, are what caused the drops this semester (and every semester). By “drop,” I am referring to students who drop out of the class. Some years ago, a few students indicated to me that they were appalled at the amount of reading required, strangely, in a “writing” class. They argued that the emphasis should be on writing, not reading. I do not hear that complaint anymore because I try to explain from the beginning of the semester what reading does to the thought process of the writer. It unleashes and frees; it inspires; it creates new avenues of wording. Because it does those things, I can tell how many students are reading, and how much they are doing that.

Not so many, and of those who do the reading, not all complete it.

How do I know these things? Because I have read in student essays that Martin Luther King Jr. freed the slaves, that Philus (a literary creation of Cicero) was a famous Roman orator and that Thoreau went to prison for a very long time.

When it comes to the research book I assign, and there are a great many good ones that explain exactly how to cite a reference both in text and on the Works Cited page, you would think I had required my students to walk over hot coals. Bedford St. Martins made the book I chose this semester so easy that the MLA segment is color coded a cheerful orange. Impossible to miss. That is, if one has not dropped the book into the toilet tank.

Adding insult to injury, I have required my students buy my own collection of stories, Under a Crescent Moon: Stories of Arabia.   I spent a week coming up with intelligent questions to this book.  I know that a good many students never read the wonderful selections in A World of Ideas, depending instead on class discussions to get a foggy idea of the topic.  By fulfilling this new assignment, they will have to spend some time in critical thought stemming from reading.

That is if they buy the book.  Judging by the expression of some, I have brought in one book too many, and it does not matter that they are all reasonably priced if not downright cheap. Some may be nursing their grudges against me over their  $5 Starbucks frappuccinos.

The enduring inspiration of Kobe Bryant

Our regular readers know I’m a huge NBA fan, and that I count Kobe Bryant among my heroes. He shares that treasured status with Elvis, who I have admired since I was a shy but determined to make something of myself 12 year old girl. Kobe has been on my short list—and it’s truly short, as he and Elvis are it—since January 2006, when he had that 81 point game against Toronto. I watched, mesmerized at how he was able to single-handedly bring his team back from the brink and turn what was on track to be a humiliating home loss into a highlight reel that would be watched over and over again for years to come.

This past Wednesday, I watched in a similar state of awe as Bryant worked his magic again, this time against the under-achieving New Orleans Hornets, a team which has won only a handful of home games all season. At one point, the Lakers found themselves down by 25 points in a game they absolutely had to win to keep their playoff hopes alive. They still trailed by 18 (75-93) to begin the fourth quarter, one that had Hornets fans on their feet, cheering what was certain to be a major upset, a tiny flicker of feel good in their season of lost desires. Twelve minutes later, the Lakers walked off the court with a 108-102 win. During those twelve amazing minutes, Kobe scored 18 points on seven-for-eight shooting and added four assists. He finished the game with 42 points, 12 assists, and 7 rebounds. Granted, he had some help from Dwight Howard, who posted his best game as a Laker with 20 points, 15 rebounds, and four blocked shots, the last of which was critical to preserve the win. But I know, as does every Laker fan, that it was Kobe and his refuse to lose attitude that won the seemingly unwinnable game.

It’s no secret that it’s been a tough season for the Lakers. What was expected to be a championship contender has struggled to stay within striking distance of the playoffs all year. The reasons are many: major injuries to key players, a coaching change (of which I still say thank you, Dr. Buss), too many new players, a difficult schedule, and the recent passing of legendary team owner Jerry Buss, may he rest in peace.

But Kobe isn’t one to make excuses, so neither will I. The Lakers should have a much better record than 31-31. Nonetheless, they are still alive and kicking because Kobe will not accept anything less than qualifying for the playoffs, even if it kills him. And frankly, most days I’m surprised it hasn’t. Here is a 34-year-old guy who still goes to the gym at 4:30 in the morning to work on his game, which often includes taking some 800 practice shots. He takes ice baths after games to keep the swelling down. Not ice packs on the joints like I use for my tendonitis and arthritis, but ice baths. He maintains a healthy diet of lean meats, fruits and veggies. Namely, he does everything humanly possible to keep his body in top shape. A body that has logged an enormous number of miles over his 17 year career.  As a result, as incredible as it is to say, he is playing better this year than he ever has.

There is talk of retirement when his contract ends after next season. Talk that I can certainly understand from Kobe’s standpoint. I can’t imagine how hard it is to do what he does every single day. As a basketball fan, however, I want the Mamba—or, as he has recently been dubbed, Vino, to keep doing all those things and more so he can play forever. Frankly, I just can’t imagine watching Laker games without that fine wine, number 24, dripping his magic on the court. Regardless of who has donned the Purple and Gold in the past and who will proudly do so in the future, I am certain of one thing: there will never be another player who displays the type of lead-by-example work ethic of Kobe Bean Bryant.

Greatest Laker ever? Yes, and it’s not even close. Best NBA player ever? At this moment, it’s probably a dead heat between Jordan and Kobe, but when all is said and done, I truly believe Vino will prevail.

This morning I was thinking that if I possessed even a fraction of Kobe’s determination, I would likely have penned several best sellers by now. I suppose there’s still time, so I best sign off this blog and get to writing them.

 

 

Patience, Virtue, Morality, and other lost arts

We live in the instant age, which we can tie directly to the mesmerizing advancement of technology. On the surface, this makes our lives easier. When I first began writing, I worked on a manual typewriter that belonged to my grandmother. In my twenties, I was thrilled to have an electric typewriter! So much easier on my fingers, and a lot better looking result on the page. When I got my first computer in the late 1980s, a used Atari 800, which came with a dot matrix printer, I thought I was in heaven. No more carbon copies, no more typing over mistakes with white tape or using white paint to cover them up! Talk about the wave of the future.

By 1994, home computers were becoming commonplace. Our first was a Pac Bell 486. I barely knew how to turn it on, let alone use it. So I read the manuals for DOS and Windows 3.1 cover to cover until I understood how it worked. It soon became an everyday tool in my writing and a homework helper for my girls. Shortly thereafter, the dial up internet was born. Bills in excess of $50 a month, just to connect and stay online for a few hours a week. Hours to download any type of program or update. Disconnects along the way so you had to start all over.

Today, I have the majority of my music collection, which is extensive, on a digital “cloud” located somewhere in Apple’s Universe. Music that is accessible instantly on my iPhone with the swipe of a finger, or, if I want to get really fancy, via voice command to Siri. Speak into the microphone, and she finds the song and plays it. If I miss a TV show, most are available via aps from the networks. I can swipe my finger again, and watch a full hour long show. Or a movie. I can watch video clips of everything to basketball instant replays to the latest news conference in Washington. Amazing. No other way to describe it.

And as a writing instrument, the modern computer is far more elaborate than I ever could have imagined. When I was working on Elvis Presley, Richard Nixon, and the American Dream in the late 1990s, there was next to nothing insofar as research available on the internet. I had to check out books from the library, look at magazines and newspapers on microfilm, and then either photocopy or write down in longhand the information I was researching. Hoop Lore was done about 50/50, as more and more info became available on the net. If I were writing a non-fiction book today, I would expect that 98% of my research would be done from my office chair.

All of that is well and good. But as technology evolves ever faster, we are beginning to see the downside. It reminds me of the series finale of the TV show, Battlestar Galactica. (The Sci-fi network’s remake, not the original.) In that final episode, we learn that several characters have lived through numerous lives, with the society in which they live always ending the same way: technology evolves to the point where it destroys humanity.

Now, I’m not saying we’re going to be taken over by a mean generation of robotic Siris or anything like that. But, it is impossible not to see the effect this instant age is having on the younger generation. Think about that silly AT&T Universe ad campaign currently airing. A 6 or 7 year old boy rocking in chairs with his grandfather talking about how “back in the day” they had to watch TV in the room where it was hooked up. Or, the one that really irks me, the 12 year old boy talking to his brothers about how back in his time, it sometimes took a minute to download a song. I’m not sure who the brains at AT&T are gearing this nonsense toward, but for me, it’s so nauseating I would never consider switching to their service.

As for our day-to-day lives, I have noticed people becoming more and more rude, more and more demanding. They want what they want, and they want it now. (Most don’t want to pay for it either, but that’s a rant for another day.) My husband sees this every day in his contractor’s business. Clients who take months to make up their minds about what they want. Then, when they finally decide, they call him and ask if he can put their kitchens in that afternoon. When he explains others are now waiting ahead of them, many get irate and do whatever they can to spread nasty rumors about his business. I am now seeing the same thing on Ebay. I used to do a lot of selling on there 10-12 years ago. The service was fairly new, and the people using it, buyers and sellers alike, were mostly civil. Others outright friendly. I would estimate that I had trouble with perhaps one out of a hundred customers. Today it’s more like one out of ten. People pay instantly with Paypal, and then expect their package to be sitting on their doorstep the next morning. I wish I could say I’m exaggerating.

Recently, both Julia and I upgraded our computers to systems running Windows 8. Neither of us particularly likes it. It’s very different, geared toward (should have seen this coming) people 20 and under who live their lives walking around checking Facebook and Twitter every five minutes on their phones. When Julia voiced her distaste for this “upgrade” at a writing get-together last week and said she hopes Microsoft dumps it soon, our resident sage, Lesley, said “I don’t think we’re going to go backwards.”

Lesley is right, of course. There’s no going back. Technology changes on a daily basis, and we either strive to change with it or get left behind. I’m sorry to say that there are more and more days where I think I might just opt for the latter.

 

A Séance with Mad Spirits

by Aubrey Beardsley

We were fortunate to be visited this past New Year’s Eve by Madame Zavosky, a medium of renown in Visalia (or was it Lebec) in California.

She follows the intermittent Grassroots Writers’ Guild blog as well as every other writing blog she can find because they help distract her from her own writing project that at present is running past 800 pages. This work Madame Zavosky titles Channeling the Mad Spirits. Madame Zavosky is depressed about her project, which has been revised a dozen times. Agents are telling her it is old fashioned, too long and has a lot of punctuation errors.

We didn’t know of Madame Zavosky’s writing ambitions when we contacted her, nor did we really care.

All we knew is that her medium services are priced within our budget (cheap).  She had offered, in one of her numerous but always deleted comments on our blog, to stop in Fresno and channel for us for the price of a Macdonald’s burger.

In the midst of intense boredom, it was an offer we couldn’t ignore.  Madame Zavosky arrived in her trailer a few hours before midnight. By a quarter to 12, we three were seated around a table, candles flickering.

“Who iz eet it you vant to speak with?” asked Madame Zavosky.

“Charles Dickens,” I piped up, looking at Connie. She shrugged good-naturedly as if to say, sure, I could have first pick.

“Arrrr you there, Charles Dickens?”

Madame Zavosky did that for a while, crooning and asking for the requested spirit. A few fireworks went off even though it wasn’t quite midnight yet. Kook, Connie’s boxer, lifted his head and Lila, her little dog, started barking.

“He is here!” announced Madame Zavosky. “Vat you vant to ask?”

“What does he think of ebooks?”  I blurted, looking around. I knew enough about séances to realize I wouldn’t see any sign of Charles, but I hadn’t heard his voice and wondered what sign she had of his presence.

“Vat you think of ebooks, Charles Dickens?”

A premature bottle rocket went off in the street. Lila braced her legs and barked her head off for a full thirty seconds.  I wondered how Madame Zavosky was going to be able to hear Charles Dickens’ answer.

“Lila, be quiet,” commanded Connie.

Madame Zavosky smiled. “He vishes ebooks were around in his lifetime,” she said. “Vat more you vant to ask?”

Connie and I exchanged glances. Madame Zavosky hadn’t used a man’s voice to answer with. No wonder she was so cheap.

“Ask Stephen King what he thinks of Stephanie Meyer’s writing,” said Connie, winking at me.

“Stephen King,” repeated Madame Zavosky, “Is he dead?”

“No, actually, he’s not,” admitted Connie.

“Ah. Thank God. That will cost you more,” said our medium.

We looked at each other.

“How much?” I asked.

“Fries and a coke.”

We thought about that for a good ten seconds. “Okay,” we agreed.

“You have land line?”

I thought she said “Land mine,” but Connie heard better through the crackling of fireworks than I did. She got up and brought back a phone.

“Okay. I call now.” Madame Zavosky looked at me. “You can let go my hand.” She dialed and someone immediately picked up.

“Stephen, are you awake?” she asked.

The street exploded with fireworks and Lila ran around yapping.

We couldn’t hear Madame Zavosky talk to Stephen King for several minutes. She hung up and we waited through the explosions. When the street calmed down, we expected her answer.

Madame Zavosky shrugged. “You think I could hear him through that noise?”

Elvis, normally the nicest dog on earth, and who had been sleeping soundly all that time near the front door, began growling.

Madame Zavosky stuck out her hand. “Money, please. I need my dinner.”

After she left, Elvis was still growling.

“What’s wrong with Elvis?” I asked Connie.

“He doesn’t like fakes,” she said.

 

 

 

The Magnificent Struggle of Margaret Mitchell

by Aubrey Beardsley

Writing is hard business. It starts out in seclusion, continues as compulsion and never quite finishes. The pursuit itself is in heavy odds against a happy ending, and we mean that literally. To call writers “tortured” is a good idea. Therapeutic as writing may be, once engrained as a lifetime passion, the writer must justify it to himself for the simple reason that any single writing project is a career.

Take Margaret Mitchell and her project of Gone with the Wind. Her happiest days were probably those  spent as a newspaper and magazine reporter, even while her first marriage was falling apart. She lived in a cramped apartment and read books compulsively. As a relatively young woman, she developed health problems. If her body was temperamental, her mind was perhaps more so, being highly intelligent, easily bored, and demanding to the point of perfectionism and self-deprecation.

it took her ten years to write Gone with the Wind. During that project, she referred to her “manic depression” and claimed she never wrote but with some kind of drawback. According to biographer Darden Pyron,  Mitchell complained at the time that her “writing goes so slowly as to be almost imperceptible. After the jitters came a spell of pleurisy which made writing impossible and now that I’m trying again, it seems sillier and sillier” (Southern Daughter, Life of Margaret Mitchell).

She fought against arthritis and was unable to walk normally for at least four years. During a period of time, her hands were too stiff and swollen to touch a typewriter. She also had an episode of blindness and has been called a neurotic.

The most curious detail, though perhaps not to other writers, was her secretiveness. She hid her writing from her friends, covering the typewriter with a bath towel if someone dropped by unexpectedly. She moved her typewriter and growing stacks of manuscript around the apartment to better and better conceal them. And note: she was always dismissive about her purported creative writing efforts.

Why? She had an established reputation as a reporter. For some reason, she distrusted her compulsion to write this novel. Perhaps she understood too well the difficulty in finding an editor.  It was after being goaded that she slammed all the scattered chapters of her then unnamed epic into a giant pile and carted them off furiously to the hotel room of the Macmillan editor, Harold Lantham.

She received a $500 advance and 10 percent of the royalties. She had all her other literary efforts destroyed.

Larry Hagman’s J. R. Ewing: The villain we loved to hate

When I read about Larry Hagman’s death in the newspaper, the first thing I did was text my oldest daughter, Carrie.  “Larry Hagman died!” Carrie and I used to watch the original Dallas together every Friday night, and we both love the new update on TNT. Carrie responded a few minutes later with: “I know. Now we will never find out what J.R. was up to this time!”

Carrie’s response really typifies what the character of J. R. Ewing was all about: the towering man in the big white cowboy hat was constantly up to something, and it was never good. It was, however, always interesting—enough so that millions of viewers turned in every Friday night to see his latest scheme unfold. We were rarely disappointed.  J. R. wasn’t above using anyone to get what he wanted, including his own parents. If he had a soft spot, it was his son, John Ross. But even then, he wasn’t above using his boy against his on and off again wife, Sue Ellen, in his latest power grab.

To those of you who weren’t avid Dallas fans, I’m sure J. R. sounds like a terrible character with no redeeming values. The type who, as writers, we are told to avoid using as main characters in our stories at all costs. Why? Because readers supposedly can’t relate to people like J. R., characters who are simply too one-sidedly evil for readers to relate to. Normally, I agree with that rule of thumb. Dallas’s writers must have as well, as initially Hagman was signed to do only six or eight episodes of the show’s debut season back in 1978. Instead, J. R. loomed larger than life for Dallas fans over the course of an amazing 14 year run. Take that, rule of thumb.

There’s little doubt Hagman’s portrayal of J. R. is what led TNT to revive the show this past summer. To the developers’ credit, they were smart enough to include Hagman in the update, as well as Patrick Duffy (J. R.’s righteous little brother), Linda Gray (Sue Ellen, J. R.’s ex-wife), and Ken Kercheval (J. R.’s long-time wannabe nemesis). Early ratings were so strong that another full season was ordered after only a few episodes had aired.  Fortunately for fans, Hagman managed to film enough scenes for six episodes of season two, which will begin to air in January. The show’s writers did an excellent job of blending the old characters with the new generation, enough so that the new Dallas has a good chance of remaining on the air for awhile. Another generation of back-stabbing Ewings. Who could ask for anything more?

Thanks, Larry! And rest in peace, J. R. We will always love you.