Photo Finish Friday: “Portal”

In the hedge lay adventure.

Robbie said, “Ain’t so.”

“Is too,” Ray said back.

Robbie and Ray were each six years old. Robbie was a few months older, and on occasions like this, he like to remind Ray of that. They just weren’t sure what this occasion was. Still, Robbie was asserting his role as elder statesman to tell Ray he was wrong.

“It’s like Nose legend.,” Ray said “You know, that great fight called Rag in a rock.”

“This got nothin’ to do with that,” Robbie said. “Ain’t nothin’ more than a strange cut in the hedge for that box.”

“It’s a portal, I tell you. And those Nose gods will come pourin’ through it to do battle with them frost giants and there will be an army of Gideon.”

“Who’s that?” Robbie asked.

Ray shrugged. “Some guy who can pour armies.”

“Ain’t no army goin’ to come pourin’ out of that hole in the hedge. It don’t even go all the way through.”

“It’s still a portal,” Ray said, “and if you go and sit in it for six hours, you will see it: happening. I dare ya’. I double dog dare ya!”

Not one to turn down a double dog dare, Robbie snuck up on the rectangular. And to show he wasn’t scared at all, he climbed into the hole in the fence. He tried several different poses and a few words he wasn’t supposed to.

After thirty minutes, Robbie fell asleep in the portal. After another ten minutes had passed, Ray left and walked back to the family picnic where he immediately ate his ice cream allotment and Robbie’s, too.

Photo Finish Friday: “New digs”

Even the “wee little people” have to consider climate change when finding new digs.

“Well, Colm, have you and the little missus decided on which home will be yours?”

Colm didn’t like the way the realtor used the phrase “the little missus,” but he held his tongue. He’d let “the little missus” glare do all the talking on that point. He and Caroline had come to look for a new dwelling, one outside the faery hill they were living in. The sea level was rising and their hill had already started taking in some water. Yet, he wasn’t quite sold on this type of housing. After all, even it sat on spindle taken from an old staircase in rundown historic home, as advertised, he didn’t know he was quite ready to buy one.

“Maybe this will help you make up your mind,” Jasper the realtor said. He rubbed his hands together, then slapped then against each other, then shot his sleeves. His jacket was as loud as his actions. Rumor had it, the darn thing was actually made from a section of a horse blanket. If it had been from a braying jackass, it would have been more appropriate.

“For today, only,” Jasper said, “I will throw in a ten pound bag of birdseed at no additional charge.”

“Birdseed?” Caroline asked, speaking for the first time in over an hour. “What do we need birdseed for?”

“Why, my lovely, for the birds that will be stopping by.”

“You mean this is a bird house?” She asked.

“Only if you let them stay,” Jasper said. He rubbed his hands together again, then slapped them against each other again, then shot his sleeves again. “And if they should become a bother, I have a couple of cats on retainer that for a small fee I can send over your way for a few days, and that should clear things right up.”

Colm sighed. Moving into a neighborhood above ground was going to be harder than he had imagined.

Photo Finish Friday: “The Trojan catsup bottle”

[Editor's note: Every now and then I will post a photo with a caption or a short poem or a bit of writing to it. You are free to make up own captions or comments.]

The invading force was hidden inside a giant Brooks Catsup Bottle.

There it was. The invading force was hidden inside a giant Brooks Catsup Bottle. He was sure of it.

“There it is,” David said to himself. When we go to sleep tonight, the alien invading force will unscrew the top of the giant bottle, sneak out, and cut the throats of all able-bodied males, slather the women in red ooze, and tie up the children with supersized french fries. Somehow, he had to muster the courage to tell the town’s people an invasion was coming and likely coming tonight, and that the aliens would be flowing out of the giant bottle like spilled milk. He didn’t relish all the derisive comments he’d have to face and maybe even a rotten tomato or two thrown at him. After all, this wasn’t the first alien invasion he’d been privy to. Or even the second. He didn’t call this the Condiment Wars for nothing.

New word: “congressed”

Upon occasion, it seems that there are gaps in the English language: experiences, ideas, emotions, and even eventualities that don’t quite have a word to identify them. Today, we have one such experience in need of a new definition…

They congressed.

v.i. (verb intransitive): To meet for no discernible reason, to then accomplish no discernible goal, and then to adjourn with no discernible conclusion.

Speeches can be made, positions staked out, even bills passed out, but all of little note in addressing the issues at hand.

They congressed despite themselves, and were well paid for it.

As well as a verb intransitive which means a verb that needs no direct object, this is a new classification of verb, known as the verb intransigent: meaning a verb that has no direct object and does no direct work due to the entropy of ideology, intellect, or the simple overwhelming asinine nature of the persons congressing.

A fine example of a place where congressing takes place. A place where good governing goes to die.

Freeform Friday: “Stroke of Genius”

Stroke of Genius

by David E. Booker

O’ gods of justice and of light
Pause to consider this poor man’s plight.
He stands erect, with chain saw there
In place left best for underwear.

He yanks the cord with all his might
Hoping to overcome his limpid plight.
The motor chuffs; the man’s abrupt
Wondering loudly why nature interrupts.

He tugs and tugs and tugs once more
Imploring the gods: implore, implore.
Sweat from his face is running down
And he wants to toss saw to the ground.

Yet, one final time he assails his plight,
Stroking and stroking with all his might.
The engine coughs and sputters to life
Then its biting causes him new strife.

Putting something sharp where he ought not to.

Freeform Friday: Americana

Pig on a porch swing

Pig in a Porch

by David E. Booker

Pig on a porch swing
sittin’ by the road.
One day waved
at a passing toad.
Toad wheeled around
to give the pig heck
when the pig pulled out
a menu and a pet.
The toad saw the pig
had a frog on a string,
which to him was
the oddest of all things.
I’ll free that frog
if it takes all day.
the toad said to himself
when asked the pig to play.
Pig on a porch swing
sittin’ by the road.
One day waved
at a passing toad.
Toad wheeled around
to give the pig heck
when the pig pulled out
a menu and a pet.
The toad saw the pig
had a frog on a string,
which to him was
the oddest of things.
I’ll free that frog
if it takes all day.
the toad said to himself,
then he asked the pig to play.
The pig said, “Sure
Whatcha have in mind?”
The toad said, “Sit Still.
It’s a favorite of mine.”
So the pig sat still
Well into the night
Which was all well and good
And to the Toad’s great delight.
So, to this very day
Should you pass by his swing
You’ll find our intrepid pig
Is still doing the statue thing.

Writing Tip Wednesday: “Marketing”

HOW TO MAKE TIME FOR MARKETING YOUR WORK

by BRUCE HALE

http://www.brucehalewritingtips.com/

Does this sound familiar to you? Sometime last year, in between crafting tweets, revising my LinkedIn profile, following up with editors, networking with librarians, researching publishers, and making all the promotional efforts expected of authors today, I found myself swamped.

How, I wondered, do I find time for all this publishing-related work, when all I want to do is create stories?

Then, one Saturday, on my usual morning rounds of the farmers market and sundry other errands, I hit upon the answer: Marketing Saturday. I already designate one day a week for buying fresh produce and such, so why not designate one day a *month* solely for promoting and marketing my work?

The concept behind Marketing Saturday (or whichever day you designate) is simple: No story writing or editing; only marketing and promotion. It’s as easy as three Ps in a pod (you should excuse the mixed metaphor):

1. PREP
To pave the way for a successful Marketing Saturday, I first create a file where I store all the random ideas on book promotion and marketing that come to me. Articles from SCBWI’s Kite Tales, posts from Publisher’s Weekly’s Children’s Bookshelf, to-do items like making flyers and postcards — all that stuff goes into the file.

Then, when my Saturday rolls around, I’m ready to address these things with a minimum of fuss and bother. Clearing the way for work is half the battle.

2. PLAN & PLUG
After reading through all that strikes me as relevant that day, I prepare a marketing plan and plug the to-do items into my calendar — otherwise they’ll never get done. Before you wonder whether one needs an MBA for that, know that my marketing plan is just a to-do list broken out by month. Nothing fancy.

For example, to promote my upcoming SCHOOL FOR S.P.I.E.S. book, I’ve got a list of activities like: write website copy, announce new website, post on listservs, email blast to friends, and so forth. Rather than becoming overwhelmed by the list, I just plug an item or three into each month on my iCal, breaking the whole thing down into bite-sized chunks.

3. PROMOTE
Sometimes I’ll do some actual promotional work during my Marketing Saturday — updating the website, creating the aforementioned flyers, or whatever. Other times it’s all about reading and planning.

But whether I do it then or later, the work must get done somehow. Inevitably, some of those marketing actions will slop over into my writing days — and that’s okay. Taking time to create the to-do list and plan it takes a lot of the sting out of giving up time from my writing, and actually makes that time shorter.

Want to get going on your own Marketing Saturday? Here are some starter ideas to point you in the right direction…

If you’re not published…
- read PW’s Children’s Bookshelf (subscribe for free at publishersweekly.com) or e-zines relevant to your writing
- refine your query letter (for tips, check out How To Write Irresistible Query Letters, from Writer’s Digest Books)
- send out query letters to five publishers
- research editors and agents on blogs, the SCBWI Market Survey, and other sources.

If you’re published…
- work on your school visit flyer
- post on children’s literature-related listservs (remembering to add value, not just promote your own books)
- plan your blog/newsletter/Twitter/Facebook posts
- create curriculum tie-in activities to promote your books
- research schools that might like a visit from you
- read Guerilla Marketing for Writers
- read 1001 Ways to Market Your Books and create to-do lists from it.

And whatever you do, keep on working that promotion. Consistency is key. Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen reached the NY Times
bestseller list with their Chicken Soup books by doing five marketing actions every workday. Can you commit to at least one Marketing Saturday?

___________

Bruce Hale

About Bruce…
Bruce Hale began his career as a writer while living in Tokyo, and continued it when he moved to Hawaii in 1983. Before entering the world of children’s books, he worked as a magazine editor, surveyor, corporate lackey, gardener, actor, and deejay.

Bruce has written and illustrated over 25 books for kids. His Underwhere series includes Prince of Underwhere and Pirates of Underwhere. His Chet Gecko Mysteries series includes: The Chameleon Wore Chartreuse, The Big Nap, The Malted Falcon, Hiss Me Deadly, and others. More at http://www.brucehale.com/

The blathering idiot writes his memoir

The blathering idiot stood in line at a writer’s convention. He had written his memoir about his campaign adventures and he was here to pitch it to agents and editors.

It was a long line. Seems everybody had a book of some sort to pitch: mystery, memoir, science fiction, military history. There was even a woman who came to pitch her book on breeding your own breed of dog. The working title was: The Bitches’ Guide to Breading Your Own. The woman herself looked like she might become one if she had to wait another minute in line. The small dog she held in her arm grew more snarly. The woman almost made it up to speak with an agent when her little bundle of fur leapt out of her grasp, onto the agents table, then the carpeted floor, pausing long enough to pee copiously, before darting off into the convention crowd.

The woman hesitated, looked at the agent, threw down the manuscript, said her book was an Idiot’s-like guide to breeding your own species, just like her little Yorkuaua. She then darted after her dog.

“Next,” the agent barked.

The blathering idiot swallowed and then sat down across the small table from the tall, imposing woman with short hair.

“Hi,” he said.

“And what’s your pitch?”

The blathering idiot stumbled through his pitch. He was sweating so hard, it looked like tears sliding down his face. No matter what she decided, he was glad it was about over.

She held up a hand. “And so this Pro-Accordion Party found you in a store front?”

“Not exactly. It was more like I found them.”

“But they picked you to be their candidate for the highest office in the land.”

“Not exactly. They had a candidate, but he backed out, citing an inability to campaign and maintain his music career.”

“Playing an accordion.”

“Yes.”

“Do you play?” she asked.

“Not exactly.”

She nodded. “Do you have an interest in playing?”

“Maybe.”

“So you don’t play the accordion. You stumbled across the Pro-Accordion Party and they were desperate for a candidate and they took you in. You had a ten-year-old as a running mate. The highlight of your campaign was speaking to a fourth-grade class, and you didn’t win a single state and weren’t even on the ballot in most of them. Is that correct?”

The blathering idiot swallowed and nodded. ‘But I enjoyed it.”

“And who do you see as the market for this book?”

“Uhh, my girlfriend.”

“My dear, naïve, child, unless you have at least one girlfriend in every city, town, and hamlet in this country, that’s not going to be many sales.”

The blathering idiot nodded, then got up from the table, stammered out a thank you, and left.

When he was outside the convention hall, Lydia, his former campaign manager, stepped up to him. “How did it go?”

“No hi, how are you?”

“So, how did it go?”

The blathering idiot shrugged. “I need more girlfriends.”

Without more girlfriends, he was probably not going to sell many copies of his memoir.

Freeform Friday: Limerick: “That Sucks”

There once was a man of great flatulence,
who still manage to have quite a dalliance.
Though he gave a rousing toot,
she still managed her flag salute,
but was unsure which roused the smile on his countenance.

Might all depend on how you look at it.

Serendipity comes to an end

The rooster atop the birdcage. Through the window are books offered for sale.

By David E. Booker

I have worked at a struggling independent bookstore. I used to joke that I couldn’t hang out in bars, so I hung out in bookstores instead. Truth is, I probably wouldn’t be hanging around bars anyway. They never held much attraction for me.

But a neighborhood bookstore in a former bar, and on top of that a bar that has a reference in literature? Sometimes more serendipitous things have happened, but for slightly over two years Central Street Bookstore was just such a place. Housed in what was formerly the Corner Lounge, the same Corner Lounge referenced in Cormac McCathy’s novel Suttree, it was a place where you could find a good used or rare book as well as stand at the bar that may have been around when Cormac McCarthy lived in Knoxville.

You could also find interesting curiosities such as an orrery, a smiling Buddha with red nipples, a limber-headed statue of Edgar Alan Poe, and a rooster sitting atop a birdcage housing lights. It was a place, as owner John Coleman said, “where people can still make serendipitous discoveries,” be those discoveries novels by authors you knew or didn’t know (including Suttree and other books by McCarthy), books of poetry, history books, and copies of books you might not find anywhere else, including comic books and even the occasional book on tape. I found and bought probably way too many books there for myself and friends, including some this past Christmas.

Some of the books for sale at Central Street Books.

Unfortunately, that will all end this March 2013, when Central Street Books closes its doors. John says the store is too small to be profitable, and that at least for the moment, he’ll concentrate on his Internet book selling and traveling to sell at book fairs. He will also have some books at a local antique mall. The struggling independent bookstore I worked at over 15 years ago is also closed. Has been for many years. The building is now home to an Oriental restaurant.

It was a serendipitous that this bookstore showed up in my neighborhood, even if for only two years. I’m just not sure where my next serendipitous finds will be found.

Books and more.