Miscellaneous Musings & Other Dry Goods

Between Shades of Gray— a book review

2011-03-17T19:37:00.004-05:00

If they came for you, what would you do?

Imagine you are preparing for bed, when the knock comes on your front door— not a knock, but the pounding of a heavy fist. Armed strangers who do not even speak your language burst into your home. They cannot be resisted— they are your new “police.” Within twenty minutes, you, your mother, and your little brother are forced from your home with only what you can carry in a single suitcase, bound for a destination you do not know, in a land you do not know, for a fate you do not know.

What would you do?

For the fifteen-year-old Lina, there is no time for heroics or grand adventure— there is merely time to grab a few clothes— even her precious art book must be left behind. Soon she and her family are in a truck crowded with frightened strangers, headed towards a bitter, brutal exile very few of them will survive.

A thriller? A science fiction novel of an apocalyptic future? No. Rather, this is the story of over 300,000 Lithuanian refugees, torn from their homes by Josef Stalin’s secret police (the NKVD, later to become the KGB) during the early years of World War II. Their crime? Being free.

Between Shades of Gray is the debut novel by author Ruta Sepetys. Born in Detroit, Michigan, Ruta is the daughter of Lithuanian refugees who escaped Stalin’s horrific conquest of their homeland and came to America as children. But others— including members of Ruta’s own family— were not so lucky. Hauled away in filthy cattle cars (with signs reading “Thieves and Prostitutes”), hundreds of thousands of teachers, doctors, and their families— including children and infants— were forced to eke out a living above the Arctic Circle, in Russia's dreaded Siberia. They were given no tools and no supplies except a few grams of stale bread each day, because while Stalin did not wish to explain their outright execution to the world, he did not want or expect them to survive. If they died on their own, well, that was just nature. (The women and children, that is. Most of the men he simply murdered.)

Based on true events, historical accounts and interviews with survivors, Between Shades of Gray uses fiction to put the reader into the lives of the Lithuanian deportees. The result is both beautiful and brutal, an incredible tale of survival, remembrance, perseverance and love. Though filled with cruelty and tragedy, Lina’s tale will call to you just as spring calls you back from winter. Once begun, you will not stop. Once finished, you will not forget. Read Between Shades of Gray, and journey to a land where hope replaces heartbreak, and love is the ultimate key to life.

For more about Between Shades of Gray, visit www.betweenshadesofgray.com.
Available in bookstores around the world (yes, including Lithuania), March 22, 2011.

--- Howard Shirley

P.S. Ruta is a very dear friend of mine, and it has been my delight to watch this book come into being. I know what she writes is from her heart, because I have seen her heart in the midst of the writing. But don’t just take my word for it— read her reviews:

Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

Booklist (starred review)

Publisher’s Weekly (starred review)

And those aren’t all. Get ready, this book is going to hit like a storm.

45 Times Around the Sun, and 1/365th

2010-07-27T10:50:00.002-05:00

Yesterday was my birthday, an auspicious occasion (at least to me). I've been following this circular* course around a star for some time now, and I've gotten rather used to it, and I must say all in all I like it. In fact, I think I'll try to keep it going as long as I can.

Someone else shared my birthday yesterday, an auspicious occasion for him as well, being the start of his very first trip around the Sun. His name is James Arthur Lewey, and he is my great-nephew, son of my nephew Daniel Lewey and his lovely wife Melanie. (Congratulations to both of you!) He's now made it 1/365th of the way on his first grand circle. Hang on, kid, it's a great ride!

Nothing more to share than that, but that's a lot to share.

--- Howard Shirley

*Yes, I know it's really an ellipse, not a circle, but I've got a poetic license and I'm gonna use it!

The Sound of Stone

2010-07-21T10:17:00.004-05:00

A brief fantasy tale by Howard Shirley

When you can’t hear your own breathing is when you realize that you miss it. I am not talking about when you don’t hear your own breathing. That happens all the time. I think we’re so used to it that we just dull it out and think of it as silent, just like we don’t really notice the sound our skin makes brushing inside of our clothing, or the way leather creaks as it twists against our movement. Thor knows I’ve even ceased to notice the scrape and dull jangle of my own armor on a long march. I put it on and as far as my ears are concerned, I might as well be wearing spidercloth. Unless of course there’s an enemy nearby with ears that will pick up even the slightest scratch of my axebelt against my hauberk, and then every sound I make might as well be the slam of a hammer against hot steel.

I’ve heard men like Brom say we dwarves are quieter than cats, even wrapped in breastplate on top of mail. I don’t know whether that’s true or not— I can’t stand cats, always eyeing my beard and braids like I’m dangling a fish on a line for them to swipe at. The Loki-cursed things creep up on you even when your ears could hear the ring of gold in a clay cup twenty shafts away. No dwarf is that quiet or that sneaky.

Except me, right now. I glance down at the quarrel in my crossbow. It doesn’t look any different from the others in my belt. You’d think it would glow or even gleam, like a dwarf craftspell would. But it doesn’t look one bit different— just black, with only the faintest hint of a glimmer from the sharpened edges I honed yester morning. The only thing about it that tells me Thalin’s spell is on the bolt is that I can’t hear anything— not my armor, not my leather, not even my own breathing or the pounding of blood in my temples. Even the vibrations of my feet against the floor are missing, sounds I’ve always felt with my body even if my ears have tuned them out. I can feel the rise and fall of my breath shoving my chest against my hauberk, I can feel the weight of armor and pack, the warmth of the crossbow’s stock against my hand, the tension in the trigger, even the pressure of my booted feet against the stone floor. I can smell my sweat and Brom’s strange human odor, and the hints of incense that drift from Thalin’s robes, even the tiniest tint of blood that lingers on Mada-Thor’s knife blade from this morning’s sacrifice. If I turned my head to look at them, I would see them all, stepping behind me, instinctively trying to be silent themselves, though with the magicked quarrel there is no need. I can’t hear them any more than they can hear me, or even their own breathing.

It is a . . . disquieting feeling, which seems an odd word to use given that silence surrounds us utterly. But there it is. And for an old dwarf like me, used to gauging the soundness of stone and shaft by the echoes and creaks no one but my own kind can hear, it begins to approach terrifying. “May you hear no stone,” is an old dwarven curse, a wish for disaster to befall another. Deafness among my people is like a death, for it means one can never travel alone again into the mountain ways, but must be guided as if blind, or spend the remainder of ones long years above our sacred delvings, forever an outcast amidst our kind. It is not a curse said lightly.

Yet here I am, under just such a curse by my own agreement, if however temporary. And the thought comes to my mind, What if Thalin erred? What if the spell lies not upon my quarrel, but upon my hand that held it up? I know that man’s magic is not always permanent without great labor by a mage, but dwarf and magic goes not well together, save for our own craftspells. I once heard of a dwarf who had permitted a human mage to give him wings, and instead his beard turned into feathers. If this magic of silence dwells now forever upon my person, I am cursed beyond all dwarfdom. It had seemed like a clever, even crafty idea at the time Thalin suggested it, but now with not even my own thoughts entering my ears, my fear arises that we may have mined into loose shale, as the saying goes.

Even though the pressure comes through hauberk and jerkin, the hand upon my shoulder makes me jump— I almost pull the trigger on the bow on the spot. I turn to look; it is Mada-Thor who has touched me. The look in her eyes says she understands my discomfort, she who has been my friend since before Brom held his first sword. In the overwhelming silence she can only gesture upwards. I follow her eyes, beholding the black scrawl against the ceiling, a crude sigil of a misshapen skull, cloven in two. The Damned Ones must have stood upon each other’s twisted backs to scribe it there. I am ashamed that I, a dwarf within my native realm of stone, did not see the khohbhauluth sign first— but then, Mada-Thor is guided by a god. I see Brom and Thalin turn their eyes upwards as well, and Brom mouth out the man-word “Kobold!” though not even he can hear his exclamation. Just as well— I hate hearing our sacred tongue corrupted in another’s mouth, and his cry might have alerted our quarry. For once I bless Thalin’s ploy— in one respect, it is serving us now. Brom starts at not hearing his own words, then I can see it break upon him that his outburst would have proved dangerous. He throws his head back in mirth and slaps Thalin upon his back. The mage startles at the blow, then his mouth splits into a sly grin. I like a mage with a sense of humor about themselves— all too many laugh only at the discomfort they can cause to others.

Brom shares Thalin’s grin and nods to me to advance. I’ll say this for the man, he may not be as cautious as need be, but he doesn’t swagger forth into the lead like those fools who think their bulk is proof against all comers. Brom has an inkling for tactics and a respect for where others’ abilities may be more useful than his own. In my case, I’m familiar with the nature of these passages. And I’m the best shot in the Twin Kingdoms, Above and Below, if I say so myself— even in silence.

I glance at Thalin. He needs no explanation, and waves his hand in an odd caress across the rough-hewn crystal atop his staff. The glow from it fades to a dull glimmer. My eyes adapt quickly to my native dark; I worry that perhaps even these faint beams may be too much and reach the khohbhauluth with warning. But no, even the sigil cannot be seen. I turn back to my companions. Brom has his sword out now, fine make for man-work, held cautiously wide to avoid the rest of us. Mada has her hammer ready, mouthing silent blessings over it— I wonder if Thor can sense her prayer, devoid of sound? I think one of my own for that, not much considering the irony. Thalin merely places one hand on Mada’s shoulder for guidance, she does the same for Brom, who moves forward and places his free hand on mine. We move off, the deaf leading the blind through halls of stone— how my ancestors would shudder at the thought!

The way is windy and slopes downwards. My eyes and feet pick out signs of loose rock, the faintest pebbles, and my fear rises at not being able to hear the faint shift of stone that warns every dwarf of coming cave-in. This movement with half my awareness lost is beyond bearing.

I feel the faint change in the air current on the edges of my beard before I see the light. It is not the strange whiteness of Thalin’s staff, nor the warm yellow of dwarven fire— it is orange and sputtery, barely giving glow where it licks against the stone far ahead, but the air moves towards it, drawn towards some thin shaft that must serve as a flue. The kobolds must be burning bhakhumen. It gives poor heat and poorer light, but for Those Who Chose The Blackness it is the light of ritual. It is the light by which they take blood.
The odor reaches my noise now, despite that the air moves away from me. Instinctively my voice tries to growl in disgust, but I feel only the rough movement in my throat. I tap Brom’s hand on my shoulder quickly, to tell him we are there, then move my hand back to the trigger.

We step forward slowly, only because the others cannot see to move faster. The dull glow from the bhakhumen fire grows more, and I can see that it comes from a side chamber along our way. Strange shadows move across the glow where it hits the wall opposite the chamber— the kobolds have begun their rite. My beard prickles at the thought we may even now have come too late.

I race forward, crossbow at the ready, no longer concerned for my companions— even their Above eyes can see the light from the chamber. Stepping into the opening, I see the scene. A score of khohbauluth are dancing before a crude altar of jumbled stone. My sister Kima is stretched across it, her chest bared below her beard, her lower garments ripped and stained with blood— not hers, I know— the kohbauluth send their sacrifices on unsullied. Her eyes stare upwards at the jagged obsidian blade held aloft over her breasts. She does not blink or show tears— she is a dwarf. All this I see in the instant, just as I see the khohbaulutavak priestess who holds the blade.

I shoot, the bolt racing across the room, and suddenly a cacophony bursts upon my straining ears— Brom in mid war cry, Mada calling upon her god, the kobolds’ chanting, suddenly growing less as the bolt appears in the priestess’s shoulder. She lurches back, the knife falling from her hand to shatter silently against the floor. I drop the bow and reach for my axe, watching her recover and reach up to clasp her wound, her mouth moving to call upon her demon lord for healing— and then her eyes flair wide when she realizes her dark prayer makes no sound. She grabs desperately at the bolt, but the flared head is stuck fast in both mail and flesh.

I grin, letting her see the teeth behind my beard. “May you hear no stone,” I growl, and rush to battle, my axe singing gloriously to my ears.

--- ©2010 by Howard Shirley

There and Back Again: A Writer's Journey

2010-02-02T16:57:00.003-06:00

I am far above the ground as I write this, high in the night sky over America. I have flown to New York, and now I fly back, soon to be home again. It has become a different trip than I imagined.

I flew with a purpose— to attend a conference of writers, hoping to meet and impress an agent or an editor with my work. New York was merely the place the conference was— nothing really more than that. Yet it seems I have traced a strange circle.

You see, I flew to New York for the first time twenty-five years ago. I was nineteen, and I was there to enjoy a week with my aunt and uncle in Manhattan, seeing the sites and incidentally (yet of very great interest to me at the time) purchasing my first “real” computer for my coming start to college.

As you might imagine, I fell in love with the city. As I looked around, it seem to thrive about me as no other place I had ever known. The city moved, a wondrous living thing, its eyes the millions of eyes with in it, its breath the whoosh of taxi cabs or the curl of steam rising from beneath the streets, its blood the silver subway cars endlessly thrust along the city's tunneled veins. I watched the people, moved with them, went where they went, rode what they rode. I saw museums and shops and shows, and pleasured in the last summer symphony, lying in the grass of Central Park as the music filtered through the warm night air. It seemed a magical, mystical place.

On that trip something else happened that I had not intended. I slept in a tiny extra bedroom in my aunt’s apartment. The room was barely larger than a long closet, but it had a desk along one wall next to a window. I set my new computer on that desk and learned to use it, sitting next to the open window, listening to the sounds of the city filtering in from the warm August nights. And I began to write.

I had written before, but never on a computer. Indeed, my interest in computers at that time was in programming them, preferably to create games. I had never really used a word processor. My new computer (the very first Macintosh) did not come with Basic (the only computer language I knew). But it did come with MacWrite. So I opened that program up to learn it, and to learn it, I began to write. What I wrote was a story— the start of a book, in fact. I would write it at night before bed, and I would write again in the morning when I woke. Writing became the buttons of my day.

When I returned home from New York, those buttons faded away. I had other needs for the computer— school papers, then a college bulletin board, and of course the inevitable games. The story languished and slipped onto floppy disks. I did not pick it up again.

It would be many years before I returned to that love of story, to let it lead my life more fully. Even now, as I seek to be the writer I set out to be, I have let other things slip in the way of it.

Yet in New York again, in that same room from so long ago, on those same streets and tunnels, I rediscovered story. I watched it happen around me, in the movement and sounds, in the faces of the people, in the delight of a young girl dancing about her father as she waited for the train to come and take them on some adventurous outing. Soon my mind was filling up with ideas and stories, and I pulled out a little notebook I carried and scratched down those ideas. Later I pulled out another notebook and wrote a little more, so that when the time was right I could return to those ideas and recall them from the moments of my memory. And one night I opened my computer in that same tiny room, and wrote.

I had come full circle.

I learned a lot at the conference, as I always do. But I learned more from the city, from being there again, steeped in people, surrounded by story. But as I left I learned something else— the story was never truly in the city or in the surroundings. It was always in me. I had merely forgotten it.

Now, as I finish this entry, I sit at home in front of another computer, descendant to that first one, in my own room, near my own window. And I know that it’s time to start a new circle, or rather to truly finish the one started on an August night so long ago. It is time to continue the story.

--- Howard Shirley

Looking Back, Looking Forward

2010-01-13T17:09:00.004-06:00

Well, we're two weeks into 2010, and I'm looking ahead into the new year. Last year had some ups and downs. No book sale yet, but I've built some connections and after my trip to the Rutgers Council on Children's Literature conference I have a number of queries and manuscripts for The Weaver of Atreia out "on the waters." Only three replies so far—rejections, alas— but two were very positive, with specific comments about the book and praise for my writing. Each was more of a case of "not the right fit" than anything else. The third was the beloved form response (oh, how we writers hate those). But I remain hopeful that the "right fit" is out there.

I'm gearing up for another round in that quest— attending the SCBWI Annual Winter Conference in New York City in a few short weeks! I've been to the L.A. Summer Conference twice, but this is my first time to brave the icy cold of the North. (I plan on bundling like Nanook. Given that it's been in the 20s down here recently, I've had practice.)

This will be my fourth trip to New York: my aunt and uncle live in Manhattan across from Central Park, so they're excited to see me again. The last time I stayed with them was when I was 21, returning from a summer volunteering at a camp in Israel. It's been a loooong time since then. So it will be good to see them (and good to save on the ridiculous room rates in NYC too).

As the New York conference is shorter, I expect to cram a lot in. I was fortunate to get into the "Writer's Intensive" sessions which are held the day before the official conference start. I'm looking forward to sharing my work and hearing back from editors, agents and fellow authors.

What am I bringing, I hear you ask? (I'm a writer; I get to put questions in your head.) I will most likely be sharing my current work-in-progress The Knuckerhole, about a girl in the Civil War South, a runaway slave she befriends, and a very real dragon. There's adventure, danger, war, friendship, loss, and a dash of history; I think I've found a winner.

So stay tuned; I expect good things from this year! I hope you do too.

--- Howard Shirley

I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In...

2009-12-23T17:21:00.008-06:00

A little gift for my blog readers that ventures outside of my writing, just a tad. Earlier this year my son had a school assignment on the explorer John Cabot. While researching the good explorer, we stumbled upon a replica of his ship, a reproduction of a 15th century caravel, christened the Matthew. (You can read about Cabot and the Matthew here.)
I got it in my head to create a paper model of the Matthew... and here is the result!

I think it looks rather spiffy, if I say so myself.

So as a Christmas gift to you, here are three caravels in PDF (Acrobat Reader) format that you can build— includinga 15th Century English Caravel in the Matthew's colors, a pirate version, and a version that lets you add whatever colors you like! You can find them all (and the instructions for building them) here.

Enjoy, and Merry Christmas!

--- Howard Shirley

Bloggin' from Rutgers

2009-10-16T21:47:00.002-05:00

It's the night before the Rutgers University Council on Children's Literature One on One Plus Conference, and I'm sitting in a hotel room with three fellow writers from middle Tennessee, going over notes about which editors and agents we plan to descend on—okay, "introduce ourselves to—" at tomorrow's conference. I can't post photos tonight (we've taken a few silly ones; it's late), but our "gang of four" for this event is myself, Sharon Cameron, Hannah Dills, and Jessica Young, all from the Nashville area. We've had a great time planning together, traveling together, and encouraging each other.

There's more to do tonight, but I'll close with a look at that last. Writing is a process done alone, but it need not be a lonely process. Nothing makes you better able to write, or helps you bear the frustration and disappointment, or lifts your spirits, like a group of fellow writers— friends who understand what you are going through, because they are going through the same experiences yourselves.

So write, but find friends. They'll keep you going; and as a writer, keeping going is sometimes the most important thing you'll do.

--- Howard Shirley

Catching Up

2009-08-12T18:36:00.008-05:00

As the summer winds down I'm getting back to life as usual. It's been a busy time, what with driving back and forth from Tennessee to North Carolina (summer camp, family reunions, etc.). But with my son's school starting up again, I'll be home and blogging more frequently for the foreseeable future.

I do have one trip I will be making— to the annual Rutger's University Council on Children's Literature One-on-One Plus Conference. (Yowzers, is that a long name! Try saying it all in one breath.) I had the honor of being invited to attend two years ago; it's great to be going back.

For those who are interested in writing for children and teens, the Rutger's conference is one of the best to attend. It's by invitation only, based on a submitted writing sample of three pages— that's right, you have three pages in which to wow the conference planners with your manuscript. So simply getting in is a Very Big Deal. But what makes the conference significant is that all attendees are assigned a mentor for the day— a mentor who is either an editor, an agent, or an established published writer. Your mentor critiques your submission, offers manuscript advice, and can be an invaluable guide to point you towards the right agent or editor for your work— if they don't request it themselves. Attendees also take part in an intimate Q&A session with four other attendees and their mentors— that means by the end of the day, no matter what, five industry professionals (four of whom are probably agents and editors) will have met you, spoken with you face to face, and heard your pitch. But the biggest part of the deal is the lunchtime meet and greet opportunity, where you eat dinner at a table with editors and agents— you pick— and have the opportunity to go speak to as many editors and agents as you desire. These agents and editors are from major agencies and publishers— firms like Curtis Brown, Writer's House, Atheneum, Henry Holt, Simon & Schuster, Scholastic, and more. So, yes, I am more than happy to be returning.

Also coming up in September is a local conference sponsored by the Midsouth regional chapter of SCBWI, which I'm looking forward to as well.

So it looks like the fall is going to be as busy as the summer— and that's a good thing.

--- Howard Shirley

Coming Up for Air (and a Poem)

2009-04-21T14:37:00.002-05:00

Well, for nearly three months now I've been working on a ghostwriting project for a client. It's been an intense time, and hasn't left much room for blogging. But now it's done, and before the next project gets started, I thought I'd update everyone on what's been going on.

So far, no word yet from any publisher or agent on my first novel. That's not all that unusual for first novels, and I have had several "close... but could you send us more stuff; we really like the way you write" responses, which for a writer are golden. Basically, they're an open invitation to query. (Yahoo!) Even better is a project that-yes-I-am-working-on requested by an editor way too long ago... but at the time, all she had seen was one sentence. She's since seen three chapters in rough draft and asked for more... and I've been all-too-slow about finishing it up. But I'm eight chapters in now, and finally cranking along. So another "Yahoo!" on that.

As for the ghostwriting project, that's been a solid case of God's blessing coming along right when I needed it. I can't go into details, but it's been a joy to do and I'm very pleased with the results.

Other tidbits: I was honored to judge a teen writers' contest for the Franklin Public Library Young Adult department here in my hometown. We had a number of entries, and it was hard to choose the winners. But all the young writers did a great job; imagination is alive and well in Tennessee!

Finally, it's National Poetry Month... so here's a poem I'm trying to live by these days:

The Storm
by Howard Shirley

Cast your bread upon the waters;
wait not for the perfect tide.
The faithless boat remains at harbor;
the nobler ship at sea abides.
For when the storm assails the shore,
‘tis hesitation stoves the hull;
and delayed dreams are burst asunder—
never will her hold be full!
Then inward sails the trusting captain
who risked his dreams to Fortune’s storm,
and finds at last his treasure waiting;
his family well, his hearthstone warm.

Thanks for reading!

--- Howard Shirley

©2009 Howard Shirley

The Present and Future of Publishing

2009-02-18T16:46:00.002-06:00

Apparently, it's panic time.

At least, that's what we're seeing in the publishing world. Long established houses are either closing or being swallowed by other houses and then closing (Hmmm... sounds rather like Municipal Darwinism). Imprints (a fancy word for what amounts to a "brand" division, not that readers care) are being reabsorbed left and right. And publishers, editors, associate editors and editorial assistants suddenly find themselves being chased by the industry equivalent of Alice's Queen of Hearts. WHACK! There goes another one...

What's a writer to do?

Relax, says this one.

Whether the industry shakeup is based on a media-produced economic panic (I think partially so, but that's a topic for a different setting), or based on industry false steps (and there have been a lot of these), I think for writers the end result will be positive.

In fact, I think we're going to witness a sea change in children's books over the next few years, which will all be to the good of writers, readers and the industry.

My predictions are that we will see a switch back to "tried and true" book themes over avant-garde, risky titles. Publishers are going to want books that sell in quantity over the long haul. This will have a two-fold impact. Quality will become even more important (good for the reader), while content will be targeted towards the consistent reader over the get-'em-to-grab-it crowd. As a result, we'll see less retreads of television shows and less controversial social commentary. Controversial issue-oriented stuff sells, but it has a limited market vis-a-vis the general public. It sells to a certain segment of the readership, and then stops. Temporarily it may get a boost because of controversy, but then the interest dies as soon as the next headline pops up. Instead, publishers will begin to trend toward books with broad-appeal themes. Some will be flashy, of course. But others will be quiet, literary in their quality rather than in their assumed social significance. Escapist literature (adventure, fantasy, action sci-fi, mystery and romance) will get a boost, as will "comfort" reads. Historical fiction will also likely pick up.

I might be wrong, and as a writer of more escapist stuff (with a literary bent), I might be engaging in wishful thinking. But, to put a label on it, the industry is going to go "conservative" in product, in appeal at least. And I'm not certain that's such a bad thing. They may discover they've been missing a large part of their market in recent years. And if that brings more readers to the bookshelves (and I think it will), even the avant-garde titles will pick up again. And that's good for all of us.

In the meantime, I'm going to write.

--- Howard Shirley

Life on Mars... Maybe

2009-01-15T13:49:00.003-06:00

In case you haven't heard yet, today NASA announced the definitive discovery of methane on the planet Mars. Why is this significant?

1.) Methane is a known by product of life. (Mars farts, as it were...)
2.) Methane can be broken down easily by basic chemical processes; if there were no life on Earth, our atmospheric methane would disappear in about 10 years. This means that the methane on Mars must come from active processes; it has not been hanging around for millions of years.
3.) Methane can also be a food source for certain types of life.
4.) The presence of methane implies the presence of water; the two processes we know of which produce methane (volcanic activity and life) both require water to supply the hydrogen atoms in methane.
5.) Though volcanic activity can produce methane, there has been no sign that any volcanic activity has occurred on Mars for millions of years— no geologically recent lava flows, no fault lines, nothing.

So, we have methane, no evidence of recent geological activity, and only two known sources which can produce the gas. Either there's volcanic activity going on which we haven't detected (and don't see other evidence for), or a natural non-living process to make methane which we don't know about, or something on Mars is alive.

Now that is some seriously cool news.

--- Howard Shirley

For more, go here: Methane on Mars

It's All Good

2008-10-14T10:12:00.005-05:00

The site is up and running again! So in celebration, I'll share some other good things... like good books!

I'll start with a recommendation for younger readers: The Sherlock Files: The 100-Year-Old Secret by Tracy Barrett. Tracy is a good friend of mine and a terrific writer. If you haven't read Cold In Summer, On Etruscan Time, or Anna of Byzantium (my personal favorite), you've missed out. Get them and read them! But on to the latest: The 100-Year-Old Secret kicks off a new middle grade mystery series by Barrett featuring the sibling sleuths Xena and Xander Holmes. Two typical American kids, they are less than certain about their futures when their parents move the family to London, England. They have to get used to new words ("biscuits" for "cookies"), new foods ("scones and clotted cream") and a new school (complete with uniforms— horrors!). But things get even crazier when they learn their great-great-great-grandfather was the real Sherlock Holmes— and they are given his casebook of unsolved mysteries as a gift. Xena and Xander can't resist a challenge, and pretty soon are off to track down a famous painting that's been missing since 1904. The book is a lot of fun and the two heroes are easy to like. Clues abound throughout the book, aided by sketches of the casebook's pages, so reading detectives can figure out the clever solution along with Xena and Xander. Suitable for ages 9-12, but older mystery lovers will enjoy it too!

When it comes to good reads, there's just something about England— specifically, the British Empire— that makes for great stories. Two recent jewels in the crown are Philip Reeve's Larklight and Starcross, set in a fanciful Victorian era Empire that has expanded into outer space. Mix a pirate yarn with an espionage novel, stir in massive quantities of steampunk science fiction and add a dash of Lemony Snicket style humor and you wind up with these two tall tales. The narration by the eleven-year-old Art Mumby (interrupted by his not-so-prim-as-she-tries-to-be fifteen-year-old sister Myrtle) is spot on. Our stalwart hero is convinced that no alien plot, however dark and devious, can stand up to British pluck— and off he goes to prove it, in rollicking style. These books are meant to be read, especially as the over-the-top illustrations just add to the humor (when the very proper Myrtle expresses certainty that the illustrator won't depict her in her nightgown, the next page does just that!). Indeed, the best way to give you a full appreciation for these two books is to repeat their full titles:
Larklight : Or the Revenge of the White Spiders! or to Saturn's Rings and Back!: A Rousing Tale of Dauntless Pluck in the Farthest Reaches of Space
and
Starcross: A Stirring Adventure of Spies, Time Travel and Curious Hats
What more needs to be said? Read 'em, by Jove!

And huzzah! A third book will be released on October 15:Mothstorm: The Horror from Beyond ~~Uranus~~ Georgium Sidus!

Yes indeed, life is good!

Please Excuse the Mess

2008-10-08T07:35:00.002-05:00

If you've been to my web site in the past day or so, you've either seen a big sign slapped on by AOL announcing that their hosting services are shutting down, or you've gotten a 404 error, or seen a page with a lot of missing graphics and bad links.

Like the guy with the snarky waiter, I'm having "server issues."

Fortunately, I've found a better host. But that means I'm in the middle of changing everything (and that's a lot) to the new server. And I do my web sites myself, which means at the moment that things are a bit... ugly. (Well, uglier than usual.)

The good news is I do have a new server.

The good news is I do have all my web site files on my main hard drive, and can easily... okay somewhat easily... upload them to the new server.

The bad news is that the new server treats filenames in the code with Capital letters as separate files from ones with lowercase letters, even if the name is the same. So when my site code calls for "AboutMe.html," the new server doesn't recognize that as a call for the file "aboutme.html." (I'm hoping for a simple fix, 'cause otherwise I have a lot of tedious code checking and file renaming to do.)

But the last bit of good news is that this blog is separate and working great.

Thanks for bearing with me while I sort things out!

--- Howard Shirley

The Last Call

2008-09-27T09:23:00.003-05:00

One by one across the water
March captains, privates, generals, all.
One by one they leave the struggle;
One by one they heed the call.
Leaders, servants, fighters, clerks;
Brave men, wise men,
Rash men, fools;
Learnéd men and laborers,
Men of thought and men of tools.
One by one across the water;
One by one they leave the fight.
How their hearts burst forth in laughter
As the darkness yields to light!
Captains, privates, generals, cooks—
Good men, brave men, heroes all—
Dearest comrades greet their coming
to the final muster call.
How the ranks stretch on to Glory!
How sweet sings out the bugle’s tone!
'Til their Captain signals silence—
"Peace, my brothers. Welcome home."

In memory of Corporal (T-5) Asa Ambrister, US Army, 1942-1946. Veteran, attorney, husband, father, grandfather, and my father-in-law.

July 23, 1924 September 26, 2008.

©2008 by Howard Shirley

--- Howard Shirley

Arrrrghhh!!!!

2008-09-19T16:38:00.002-05:00

It be Talk Like A Pirate Day, matey!

Aye, 'tis the day when true gentlemen and ladies o' fortune bespeak each other in the grand manner o' the pirates of old. (Or at least classic Hollywood). So buckle on yer swash, swagger up to yer mates and give 'em a hearty "Aaarrrghhh!!!"

An if ye be in need o' some piratey inspiration, set sail for yer local treasure place o' books and fill yer hold with some old sea tales:

Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson, the father of such grand piratey sayings as: "Fifteen men on a dead man's chest, yo ho ho and a bottle o' rum," and "Pieces of Eight!"

Captain Blood by Rafael Sabatini. 'Tis a tale of adventure, romance, and heroism on the high seas, and the source of the classic Errol Flynn flick. A must for every pirate library! Aarrghh!

The Dark Frigate by Charles Boardman Hawes. A spirited lad of England ships aboard a merchant vessel, only to run afoul of a cruel pirate captain who forces him to join his crew. These be real pirates, lad, not some lubbers in a silly hat. A Newbery winner, which is better than a gold doubloon!

The Wreckers by Iian Lawrence. Not all pirates ply the seas, mateys. On a stormy night, the lights on the shore may not be friends o' the sailor...

The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle by Avi. 'Tis not a tale o' piracy, but 'tis a grand sea tale just the same. A thirteen year old landlubber of a girl must learn the ways o' the sea when she's caught between a mutinous crew and their captain... and winds up accused of murder. Picked up a bit o' silver from the Newbery crew, and that's no treasure to sneer at!

There be plenty more good books (and some fine bits o' film too) to fill yer piratey sails, so keep a weather eye out, yer sails taut, and yer powder dry!

Aarrrgghhh!!!!

--- Cap'n Howarrghd P-)

Revise, Share, and Revise Some More.

2008-08-15T12:45:00.005-05:00

The workshop on Saturday at the Franklin Library was a lot of fun (I certainly had fun, and from the smiles on the young writers' faces, I think they did as well). Each person thought up a first sentence for a story. Then we went through and changed the sentence ten different ways; some basic (changing the tense, changing the point of view) and some radical (write in the style of Robert Louis Stevenson; write the sentence in rhyme). By the end we had some amazing differences from where we started. It's a great way to experiment with language and have fun with an idea— and even discover a story you never intended! (Again, kudos to Jennifer Wingertzahn of Clarion Books for introducing me to this terrific idea.)

We followed up with a more focused exercise, with each person choosing an object in the room and writing a description of it, as if the object were part of a story. Once we'd finished, we made a change: we had to describe the object again from the opposite point of view— if our first description was positive, we had to make the new description negative, and vice versa. (Thanks go to my good friend Ruta Sepetys for teaching me this one!)

I chose a half-eaten doughnut (yes, I do the stuff I ask you to do; it's only fair). Most of the class chose an American flag in the corner of the room. (I suspect I was hungrier.)

The responses were terrific, especially when we turned the description around (I knew it was coming; they didn't). That change launched whole new approaches, ranging from seeing the American flag as a modern-day enemy might view it, to the viewpoint of a British officer surrendering to Washington in the Revolutionary War. Wow, these young writers are good!

But perhaps the greatest lesson of the workshop was a little less obvious— the lesson of giving up your fear and sharing what you write. Six young writers had to each swallow their nervousness and read what they had just written out loud. Yikes! But in the end, they learned that they could share it— that there was something of value in what they wrote, and that others could appreciate it. And that's an important lesson to learn, whether you're just writing for a group of friends, a library workshop, or who knows whom on the Internet.

Give it a try! Sure, start with your grandmother (she'll love everything you write), but then take that risk; read it to a friend, a teacher, a writing club... not only will you become more comfortable with sharing, you'll become more comfortable with writing. And that's a great feeling to have.

--- Howard Shirley

Workshoppin'

2008-08-07T16:26:00.001-05:00

I'm back with another young writers' workshop this Saturday at the Franklin Public Library in Franklin, Tennessee. This time we'll be having fun with a great exercise I picked up from Jennifer Wingertzahn, an editor at Clarion Books.* It will have you writing and thinking— and you'll surprised at what you can do with a single sentence. If you're a teen who loves to experiment with words, come on in; we're going to have a great time.

For more information, or to sign up, check with Phillip McAndrew, the Young Adult Librarian, here

Saturday, August 9, 10:00 AM to 11:30 AM.

Oh, and Phillip informs me that I need to include this:

FREE REFRESHMENTS!!!

We're not above bribery...

--- Howard Shirley

*Remember the writer's motto: Always steal from the best! (Thanks, Jennifer!)

I've been everywhere, man...

2008-07-29T14:58:00.004-05:00

So, in answer to the rather obvious question, "Where have you been?," see above.

Okay, not strictly true. In fact, I've only been to North Carolina and back to Tennessee. And back to North Carolina. And back to Tennessee. And back to North Carolina. And back to Tennessee. And then an unexpected side trip to Alabama. And back to Tennessee. And then across Tennessee. And then to North Carolina, again. And then back home to Tennessee.

So it only feels as if I've been everywhere. (Whew, I'm tired.)

Now, as to why North Carolina, my parents have a summer cottage in the lovely Appalachian mountains just south of the Blue Ridge, and my son was attending summer camp for the first time at Camp Ridgecrest for Boys outside of Asheville, North Carolina. So the back and forth was in part to drop him off and pick him up (yes, we like having him back), and also to see my aunt and uncle who came down from Manhattan to visit my parents at their mountain cottage.

The last back, though, was just for me. My son went to camp, and I did too.

Turns out this year marks the 80th anniversary of the founding of Camp Ridgecrest, which I also attended as a boy. If there is a Paradise on Earth for boys, it is Camp Ridgecrest. There are mountain trails to hike. Mountain streams to catch crayfish in (after which you boil them over your camp fire). A mountain lake to swim in, splash in, jump in, slide in, zip-line in, and blob in. (What's a blob? It's a giant air-pillow floating in a lake. You jump on it from a tower, crawl to the end, and wait for the next kid— the bigger he is, the better— to jump on the other end. UP in the air you go with a yell, and down— SPLASH— into the lake. (Which, by the way is fed by mountain streams; brrrrr!!!)

At Ridgecrest there are campouts. Bonfires. Water balloon fights. Sock wars.

Wait, you ask. What's a "sock war?"

It's basically a humongous game of Capture the Flag, played all over camp. With socks.

Well, not socks that are worn, but socks that are thrown. The socks are filled with soft dirt or sawdust, and they are the weapons used by the two armies in this massive fight. Some of the troops tuck their socks into tight little balls, so as to make more accurate missiles. Others use long tube socks, whipping them through the air like flails for "whack-I-got-you" close combat action. If you're hit by a sock, you're temporarily out of the fight, and have to report to a neutral zone, where judges record you as a score for the other team. Naturally, capturing the enemy flag and bringing it to the neutral zone also scores points for your team. The high scoring army wins the war (which lasts about two hours).

And yes, during the Reunion weekend, I joined the war. There I am, forty-three year old dad, running around with kids and young men ages 6-26, yelling my head off and throwing socks. I ran down narrow forest paths. I dodged through rhododendron thickets. I slid through mud. I wound up with two long scratches on my leg and one across my wrist from whipping branches. I got hit in the head twice (head shots don't count as outs), and elsewhere about five times. By the end I was hot, thirsty, and exhausted. In short, it was one of the best days I've had all year. And I still don't know if my team won or not!

To borrow a saying from the Marines: You can take the boy out of the camp, but you'll never take the camp out of the boy.

--- Howard Shirley, aka Camp Ridgecrest Son of Chief "Talented Peacock"*

*My "Indian" name from the Camp Ridgecrest Indian Council Ring, given to me by the brave, stalwart, noble and very mischievous Little Chiefs of Camp Ridgecrest in 1982.

Street Cred, circa 2008, 1944 & 1928

2008-05-19T08:11:00.007-05:00

I'm not an FBI agent, but I got to play one this month. I just finished off the "FBI Citizens' Academy," which was my opportunity to learn about the FBI, what they do and who they are, without the absurd filter offered by Hollywood movies and over-the-top TV shows. (CSI, Numbers, etc... you know who you are.)

After six weeks of learning about anti-terrorism efforts, gangs, organized crime, counterespionage, bank robbers and cyber-crimes, on our last day we moved to the local police firing range for the most eagerly anticipated session: firearms training.

That's right. I got to blow stuff away.

The first picture here is me shooting an MP5, the standard issue FBI "long gun." MP stands for "Machine Pistol", which simply means this is an automatic rifle that shoots a pistol round. (In this case, a 10mm round. It can also shoot a 9mm round, but that "rattles going down the barrel" according to my instructor). Automatic is a bit misleading here, and it's possible I'm using that term incorrectly. "Semi-automatic" means a weapon shoots one round (one bullet) with each pull of the trigger, without the operator having to cock the weapon or take any other action for each shot. "Automatic" means the weapon just keeps firing rounds as long as the trigger is pulled. A machine-gun is an automatic weapon; a typical pistol (such as a Glock, which I also shot), is semi-automatic. In the case of the MP5, it has a two-shot burst function, which automatically shoots two rounds with each pull of the trigger. Yes, that's fun. But the second round definitely does not land where the first one did, thanks to the kick of the first shot. But it lands close enough.

(I was the most accurate for the day with this weapon, landing a "right-between-the-eyes" single round shot on our paper target.)

The second photo is the FBI's standard issue "sawed-off" shotgun. It's a three-shot, pump-action model with a shorter barrel (13") than the public can purchase (most shotguns have an 18" barrel). The shorter barrel is less accurate, but the FBI prefers it because it's easier to handle when getting out of a vehicle. This puppy has a kick on it, but it was easy to shoot. I took the standard approach, aimed for the biggest part of the target, and bam, pump, bam, pump, bam. Three solid hits. Where on the target? It's a shotgun... it doesn't matter where. In this photo you can see one of the targets we were using. His name, apparently, was Will. (Think about it...)* By the end of the day, poor Will was completely missing from the shotgun target, and the steel backboard itself was bent back to the point all you could see of it was a tiny tip. And people were still hitting that, three-for-three. Like I said, with a shotgun, "where" doesn't matter.

The third picture is a World War Two "grease gun." Yes, this gun is sixty years old. It's a pure machine-gun. It doesn't do anything except automatic. Pull the trigger and bbbbrrrrraaaaapppp, the bullets fly out. According to our instructors, this weapon was used by Allied tank soldiers, and also dropped behind enemy lines to resistance fighters because it was so cheap to manufacture (about $12 per gun at the time). It's called a "grease gun" because it looks like the grease guns 1940's mechanics used to lubricate automobile parts. The main thing I learned about this gun was to hold it steady and use short bursts. As soon as you squeeze the trigger the gun starts dancing upwards; my first time with this gun, I could hear the "spang-spang-spang" as the last of my shots hit the backstop's roof. "You, and your house, pal!" This gun was so much fun, I shot it twice.

Lastly, you'll see a genuine Thompson machine-gun from 1928. That's right, a Tommy gun, the star of many a gangster movie. This particular model is called an "overstamp 1928." It was made for the U.S. Navy in 1921, with the ability to shoot over 800 rounds in a minute. The Navy decided that was too much ammo in too short a time, so in 1928 the manufacturer reconfigured the weapon to a rate of about 650 rounds a minute, and stamped an "8" over the old "1" at the end of the date. All I can say is, 800 or 650, either way the target's a goner.

Obviously, I didn't shoot anywhere close to 650 rounds. We used a clip of 10 rounds. It doesn't take long to fire 10 bullets with a Tommy gun. Rat-a-tat-tat, you're done— but so is the target.

If you're familiar with the Tommy gun, you may have seen photos of the big round drum magazines that look a little like a black cheese wheel stuck under the bottom of the barrel. We didn't use one of these because a gun with a fully-loaded drum magazine weighs 45 pounds (!). Imagine trying to aim a sack of potatoes, and you'll understand why I was happy to take a pass on that experience.

As a writer, it's important that I seek out new experiences; every one is another tool on my belt to add depth to my stories. I may not be writing a novel about the FBI today, but tomorrow... who knows? Someday I might want to describe the experience of shooting a grease gun; now I can, because I've done it.

And yes, it was just darn cool.

--- Howard Shirley

*Our instructions were to "Fire at will." Yeah, old joke, and a groaner. That's life for Will.

Hopeful Writer & the Unsolicited Manuscript (Part 3)

2008-05-14T09:56:00.003-05:00

It's a trilogy! (So read Parts 1 & 2 or you'll be even more muddled than everyone else.)

Our story so far: 955 A.D. It is a time when men were knights, days were dark, and everybody was therefore thoroughly confused. Hopeful Writer and the Knights of the Library Study Table have embarked on a grand quest to find a publishing house. Following the SCBWI-Mercia Regional Conference (and a confusing encounter with the terrifying Agent), they have decided to brave all and seek the publisher themselves.

Cue dramatic music.

Hopeful Writer & the Unsolicited Manuscript

Part 3

by Howard Shirley

Exterior, wide shot. Low hill in foreground. A tall, imposing castle rises from a high ridge in the background, silhouetted dramatically against the sky. HOPEFUL WRITER, EAGER ILLUSTRATOR, NUMBED FINGERS, SINCERELY the SUBMITTED and REPETE the REJECTED, enter the scene from the foot of the low hill, backs to the camera. They struggle to the top of the hill and stop.

Cut to close-up of HW, EI, NF, SS, RR staring into the distance.

HW (pointing): At last— the Publisher!

EI.: The Publisher!

NF: The Publisher!

SS: The Publisher!

RR: It’s only an imprint.

OTHER KNIGHTS (to RR): Shhh!

Cut away to exterior, below the walls of the castle. The Knights of the Library Study Table approach.

EI (looking around): There doesn’t seem to be a door. Not even a drawbridge.

RR: Of course not. It’s a closed house.

HW: I always wondered what that meant.

SS: Maybe they’ll take a query?

NF: We can try.

HW: I’ll do it. (Looks up at castle, calls out) Excuse me! Hello?

Cut to shot looking up at battlements. The ASSISTANT ASSOCIATE EDITORIAL ASSISTANT (AAEA) appears.

AAEA: What do you want?

HW: Greetings! Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?

AAEA: I’m the Assistant Associate Editorial Assistant.

The KNIGHTS look at each other, trying to puzzle this out.

HW: Greetings, most noble “Assoc...” no, “Edit...” no, that’s not it either... Greetings most noble sir... (NF kicks him)... Madam! I mean, Greetings most noble madam! We are four...

SS: Five!

HW: Five! Uh, humble writers on a quest to find a home for our manuscripts, a quest bestowed upon us by The Agent Him (NF kicks him again)... uh, HERself.

EI: You know, I’m not a writer yet. I do illustrations, so maybe it is four.

HW: So we four writers...

EI: And an illustrator!

HW: Right. And an illustrator would like to respectfully submit our manuscripts to your house.

SS: Oh, well put!

AAEA: No thank you. We’ve already got one.

HW: She says they’ve already got one.

Cut to AAEA inside battlements. The ASSOCIATE ASSISTANT EDITORIAL ASSOCIATE (AAEA 2) is sitting out of sight of the KNIGHTS.

AAEA: I told them we’ve already got one.

AAEA 2 (snickers)

Cut to KNIGHTS.

NF: They’ve already got one? What’s that supposed to mean?

EI: One what?

HW: A manuscript, I guess.

RR: But they don’t have any of ours. I think it’s just a stalling tactic.

SS: A stalling tactic?

RR: To see if we’re persistent. A weeding technique.

NF: Maybe if we try a different editor?

HW (to castle): Is there anyone else we can talk to?

AAEA 2 is now standing on the battlements, and AAEA is out of sight.

AAEA 2: No. Now go away, or I shall reject you a second time.

EI: Is that the same person?

NF: It doesn’t look like the same person.

SS: I know the turnover rate in publishing is really bad, but this is ridiculous.

HW: Did anybody pick up the latest edition of Writer’s Market at the conference?

RR (holds up book): Door prize!

NF: Well, look her up.

HW (takes book, thumbs through it.): It says here she’s the “Associate Assistant Editorial Associate.”

EI: So, she is who we queried the first time.

NF: No, that was the Assistant Associate Editorial Assistant.

RR: What’s the difference?

AAEA 2 (from battlement): Wash room privileges!

HW: So, what do we do?

EI: Send chocolate?

SS: Wrap it in gold ribbon; catch her eye.

RR: Just tell her we saw her at a conference.

NF: Did we see her at a conference?

RR: Could have. They all blur together after awhile.

NF: The editors, or the conferences?

RR: Both.

HW (to AAEA 2): We, uhm, heard you at a conference. Will you at least take a sample?

AAEA 2: Oh, all right. Lob one over the transom.

NF: Over the what?

RR: She means to send her something without an agent.

SS: I thought we just did that.

EI: No, that was the query. This will be a sample.

SS: Oh.

(Suddenly something strikes RR on the head. RR falls over.)

HW: Repete! Are you okay? What hit you?

RR (lying on ground, holds up a piece of paper tied to a rock; weakly): Submission guidelines.

SS: Way to take one for the team, Repete!

NF: We’d better follow these exactly.

EI (opens paper): These are very odd.

HW: Where are we going to find that much chocolate?

RR (from ground, weakly): Little help, please?

Cut to full shot of AAEA 2 looking over the battlements. AAEA peeks above the edge.

Cut to shot of woods; no one can be seen. Sounds of typing, cries of “More paper!” “Paper jam!”“We’re out of toner!” “HOW much is this costing us in ink?!?”

Cut to extreme close-up of a wrapped package tied up in gold ribbon. The package is labeled: “Requested at Conference You Were At This Year. Really.”

Cut to shot of KNIGHTS, all helping to carry the package.

NF: Do we have enough postage on this thing?

RR: Postage? We’re not using postage.

NF: Then how are we going to send it?

HW: Just like she said. We’re lobbing it over. All right everybody, on the count of four!

SS: But there are five of us.

EI: But I’m the illustrator. That makes four.

RR: Will you guys quit yammering and help toss the package?

(They begin swinging the package back and forth to the count.)

HW: One! Two! Three! Five!

OTHER KNIGHTS: FOUR!

HW: Right! Four!

They toss.

Cut to wide shot of package sailing through the air and over the wall.

Cut to shot of AAEA and AAEA 2 watching the package.

AAEA 2: Nice lob. I didn’t think they’d have enough postage.

AAEA: Fetchez le voche!

AAEA 2: What?

AAEA: Sorry, wrong idiom. Get the you-know-what.

AAEA 2 (thumbing through French-English dictionary.): You want a cow?

AAEA: No! Look, I already apologized about the idiom. Get the you-know-what!

AAEA 2: Oh! The you-know-what. Gotcha!

Cut to KNIGHTS. They’re sitting on the ground, looking bored.

NF: So, what’s the response time on this publisher?

SS: Did anybody check Verla Kay?

SFX: Loud “twang.” Whooshing sound.

EI: Wait. I think I hear something!

Knights look up.

Cut to extreme close-up of falling package.

Cut to Knights, looking in fear.

KNIGHTS: Ah! Flee! Run away!

Knights run.

Package hits RR on the head.

RR: Like I didn’t see that one coming. (Falls over.)

SS: Neat! Who included the return postage?

NF: Seemed like a good idea.

RR (from ground, weakly): Oh yeah. Terrific.

EI: What’s in it? Revision notes? They want the manuscript?

HW: I’ll open it. (Takes package.)

RR (from ground): Don’t mind me. I’m all right. Really.

HW (opens package): It’s a rock.

SS: That’s what I’d call a solid rejection.

EI: But there’s a note.

NF (reading): “Thanks for the manuscript. We needed the fire starter. P.S. The chocolate was delicious.”

SS: Well, it’s very personable. Maybe they’d like to see something else?

RR (from ground): Mind if I move first? Like, to a bunker?

HW: We’ve got to get it past the associate assistants. Make the editor-in-chief want the book.

SS: I’ve got it! Listen up, here’s what we do...

Cut to battlements. AAEA and AAEA 2 look over in curiosity again.

Cut to forest. More cries: “Dang! The printer needs a new drum!” “Geez, might as well buy a new printer!” “This is all tax deductible, right?”

Cut to close-up of new package. The knights carry it up near the castle, then place a big sign on it.

Cut to sign: New Original Manuscript By J.K. Rowling. Seriously.

The knights sneak off.

Cut to knights watching from bushes.

Cut to castle. A portion of the wall opens, and AAEA sneaks out, looking around for watchers. Seeing none, she picks up package and sign and sneaks back through opening. It closes.

SS: A secret passage! I knew it!

NF: Okay, now what?

SS: Oh, it’s simple. The big editor will want that one. He’ll read the letter, where we apologize for the Rowling bit, and he’ll be so impressed by our cleverness that he’ll read the manuscript, and...

HW: Wait. What letter was that?

SS: The cover letter.

HW: I didn’t write a cover letter. (to NF) Did you write a cover letter?

NF: Not me. (to EI) Did you?

EI: I’m an illustrator, remember? Art speaks for itself.

RR: Oh crap.

SFX: Loud “twang.” Falling noise.

KNIGHTS: Flee! Run away!

The knights run.

A package hits RR on the head.

RR: Why did I bother to get up? (Falls over.)

NF: My, that was fast.

SS: Ya know, I don’t think this is the right publisher for us.

RR (weakly, from the ground): What was your first clue?

HW: Well, we’ve been thoroughly rejected. What do we do now?

NF: Same thing we do after every rejection.

EI: Try to take over the world?

RR (from ground): Python, not Pinky!

NF: Attend another conference.

ALL: Right!

SS: Hey, there’s still some chocolate in this package. Anybody want a coconut creme?

FADE TO BLACK.

END CREDITS:

A Knights of the Library Study Table Production.

This is a work of fiction. All characters in this production are entirely made up. Really. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No actual writers were harmed in the making of this film.

RR (voice over): Speak for yourself. Those packages hurt.

Fade to black.

TITLE:FINIS.

SUBTITLE: What? Don’t start this again!

---

The tale is done, but the quest never ends.

--- Howard Shirley

Hopeful Writer & the Unsolicited Manuscript (Part 2)

2008-05-12T13:48:00.010-05:00

Our story so far: Mercia, 955 Anno Domini. Our hero, Hopeful Writer, has arrived at the SCBWI-Mercia Annual Regional Conference, in quest for the Holy Gr... wait, wrong quest... make that: in quest for the Sale of his First Novel. After a key note address (with confusing subtitles), Hopeful Writer and the other Knights of the Library Study Table (see the cast list) have discovered they have all signed up for a seminar led by that awesome individual known as (drumroll) The Agent.

Now, on to part two of... (What, you haven't read part one yet? What are you doing reading this? Wondering who I am and what this blog is for? Hie thee to the beginning!) Okay, without further ado, back to (cue dramatic music)...

Hopeful Writer & the Unsolicited Manuscript

Part 2

by Howard Shirley

SFX: Heavenly trumpet fanfare.

Cut away. Exterior shot, sky with clouds. A blazing beam of light emits from the clouds.

Cut back to the Knights of the Library Study Table, looking in stunned amazement.

HOPEFUL WRITER: It is The Agent!

EAGER ILLUSTRATOR: The Agent?!?

NUMBED FINGERS: The Agent!

SINCERELY the SUBMITTED (nervous): Maybe I should have gone to Alan’s workshop...

REPETE the REJECTED: It’s only a junior assistant.

OTHER KNIGHTS (to RR): Shhh!

HW: Oh, great and mighty agent, he who...

ASSISTANT JUNIOR AGENT'S ASSISTANT (interrupting, annoyed): She.

HW: She?

AJAA: You think I spent four years at Radcliffe to put up with being referred to by the third person masculine pronoun? It’s just another example of how the English language has been used to oppress the rights of women...

RR: Oh Lord, not another one.

AJAA: What was that?

HW: Nothing, O Lord! Uh, O Lady!

AJAA: That’s better. Now, get on with it.

HW: Right. Oh great and mighty agent, she of beautiful countenance...

AJAA: “Beautiful countenance?” What’s that got to do with anything?

HW: Nothing! Nothing at all! Merely a pleasantry!

AJAA: “Merely a pleasantry?” Are you making some sort of judgment about my appearance?

HW: NO! Never! I... I hadn’t even noticed your appearance, not that it might not be noticeable, if you wanted it to be, which I’m not saying you do or don’t and really has nothing to do with the matter at hand, after all, this being a purely professional encounter...

NF: This pitch is not going well.

AJAA: Oh, cut the crap. I hate rambling queries.

HW: Right. Uhm... so what sort of queries do you like?

SS: Oh, good one, Hopeful!

AJAA: Haven’t you read my blog?

SS: Uh oh.

NF (jumping in): Religiously! Every day!

AJAA: I update weekly.

HW: But your updates are so good that we read them over and over, just to get the full impact of your insight!

NF: And I’m a complete idiot when it comes to that http, RSS stuff.

EI: That she is!

NF: Thanks.

EI: Don’t mention it.

RR: Oh, let me handle this. (TO AJAA) I’ve read your blog and been to the agency web site, but the submission guidelines conflict with each other. I assume, naturally, that your personal preferences take precedence, but I wanted to confirm that with you personally. I also understand that the needs of your list change, so I wanted to hear from you what your were looking for now, so that I wouldn’t bother you with a query outside of your current interest.

SS: Wow.

RR: I’m used to this.

AJAA: Aren’t you the smooth one.

RR: Just experienced.

AJAA: Been dumped a lot, have you?

RR: Uh...

AJAA: Okay, I’ll take pity on you. That’s why they sent me out to this hick conference anyway. I want something new and fresh...
(The Knights pull out notepads and begin transcribing furiously.)
... but be sure and tell me how it’s similar to other best-selling books already on the market. Just don’t compare your book to anybody else’s, because that really turns me off. Start by telling me why you’re writing to me, but don’t make yourself look like an idiot by stating the obvious because I already know why you’re writing to me. The first paragraph should sell me on the book, but remember that it’s the book that counts, not the letter, though frankly, if your letter sucks I won’t take look one at the sample, so no pressure. Include some biographical information so I know your level of experience, but don’t bore me with details that have nothing to do with your book, because I really don’t care what you’ve done before, I just care about the book you’re querying me about. And include a SASE, though if you don’t hear back from me ever just assume I’ve rejected you.

RR: How many times have I heard that.

NF (sniffing): They never call.

RR: I was talking about agents.

NF: So was I.

HW: I’d like to know about your own sales record.

EI: Excellent question!

AJAA (proudly): I’ve sold to all the major houses and several minor ones. I schmooze with all the greats. You may grovel.

HW: Uh...

AJAA: I believe I mentioned groveling?

KNIGHTS: Grovel, grovel, grovel!

AJAA: That’s much better. Just so long as you realize that the best way to find a publisher is through an agent.

HW: Oh, yes, great and beaut... uh, wonderful Lady! If we may beseech thee with but one more question?

AJAA: Oh, all right. But make it snappy.

Knights look around, confused, then begin snapping their fingers.

AJAA: I meant the question, you dolts!

HW: Right! Knew that! Sorry... just got a little light headed, what with all the note taking and what not, one day conference and all...

AJAA: The question?

HW: Oh! Uhm... you said the best way to find a publisher is through an agent.

AJAA: Of course.

HW: So, what’s the best way to find an agent?

AJAA (laughs): Why, find a publisher! (Maniacal laughter as light fades and clouds cover her.)

HW: Wait! But how... dang, she’s gone.

SS: There’s never enough time at these conferences.

NF: What do we do now?

RR: Same thing we do after every conference.

EI: Try to take over the world?

RR: No, you idiot. We look for a publisher. And stop quoting Pinky and the Brain; this is a Python parody.

EI: Sorry about that, Brain.

HW (waving arm forward): On to the Publisher!

KNIGHTS: To the Publisher!

They move forward, out of the shot. Cut away.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Postscript: Do not assume that Hopeful Writer and his fellow knights always make the right choices in their efforts to secure a publisher. In fact, for the most part assume otherwise.

Postscript two: No actual agent is represented above. Any resemblance to an actual agent is completely coincidental and unintentional, though if you know a person like this, appropriate avoidance techniques might be in order.

--- Howard Shirley

Hopeful Writer & the Unsolicited Manuscript (Part 1)

2008-05-06T16:44:00.008-05:00

So, what's it like to be a writer in the vast trackless sea of the publishing world, searching for the right house for your book? Well, sometimes it feels like this:

Hopeful Writer & the Unsolicited Manuscript

by Howard Shirley

(With apologies to Monty Python)

CAST
The Knights of the Library Study Table:
HOPEFUL WRITER (HW)
EAGER ILLUSTRATOR (EI)
NUMBED FINGERS (NF)
SINCERELY the SUBMITTED (SS)
REPETE the REJECTED (RR)
EMBARRASSED TO BE ASSOCIATED WITH THIS IDEA

Others:
THE ASSISTANT JUNIOR AGENT’S ASSISTANT (AJAA)
THE ASSISTANT ASSOCIATE EDITORIAL ASSISTANT (AAEA)
THE ASSOCIATE ASSISTANT EDITORIAL ASSOCIATE (AAEA 2)

SCENE 1:
Exterior. A fog bound plain. Indistinct shapes move about in the fog.

MUSIC: Eerie music.

TITLE: Mercia. 955 A.D. 8:55 A.M.

Two shapes bump into each other.

SHAPE 1 (HW): Oops. Sorry.

SHAPE 2 (RR): It’s okay. Is this the coffee room?

SHAPE 1: I don’t know. I was looking for the registration desk.

SHAPE 2 (gesturing vaguely): Oh, that’s over there. Better hurry; the keynote’s about to start.

SHAPE 1: Thanks! (wanders off.)

SHAPE 2: Didn’t anybody make any freakin’ coffee? What kind of conference is this?

Camera moves away, following SHAPE 1. The fog begins to clear, revealing a low table set on a barren hillside. On the table is a sign that reads: “SCBWI-Mercia Conference Registration” in gothic calligraphy.
NUMBED FINGERS sits at the table next to SINCERELY the SUBMITTED. We now see that SHAPE 1 is HOPEFUL WRITER.

HOPEFUL WRITER: Registration?

NUMBED FINGERS: You’re late. Registration is closed.

HW: That’s okay. I’m pre-registered. Hopeful Writer. That’s with a “W.”

NF (flipping through pocket folders): You’re still late.

HW: I was delayed at the airport.

NF (looking around): The airport? In Mercia?

SS (looking over): He could have taken a shuttle from Wessex.

NF: Do you have any idea how expensive that is? No writer could afford that.

SS: Yes, but the hotels sometimes offer free shuttle service.

NF: No! I had to thumb a ride with Repete the Rejected. I could have ridden in a shuttle for free?

SS: Well, it depends, of course, but...

HW: Could I have my packet, please?

NF: Sure. Whatever. (Picks up a packet and tosses it to HW.) Tell me more about this shuttle...

HW shrugs and walks off. Fade to black.

Dramatic Music.

TITLE CREDITS: The Knights of the Library Study Table proudly present:

SUBTITLE: Subtitle Missing.

SUB SUBTITLE: “Uhm... where are the subtitles?”

TITLE: Hopeful Writer and the Unsolicited Manuscript.

SUBTITLE: Still Missing.

SUB SUBTITLE: “That was Embarrassed’s job.”

TITLE: Starring

SUBTITLE: Missing, missing, missing.

SUB SUBTITLE: “You gave that job to Embarrassed?”

Fade in dramatic sepia-toned still shot of Hopeful Writer.

TITLE: Hopeful Writer

SUBTITLE: Nope. Still got nothing.

SUB SUBTITLE: “The poor woman’s swamped!”

Fade to Eager Illustrator.

TITLE: Eager Illustrator

SUBTITLE: Zilch. Nada.

SUB SUBTITLE: “ She’s got home schooling, volunteer commitments, and a three-year-old!”

Fade to Numbed Fingers.

TITLE: Numbed Fingers

SUBTITLE: Hello? Remember me? Anyone?

SUB SUBTITLE: “But she’s really good.”

Fade to Sincerely the Submitted

TITLE: Sincerely the Submitted

SUBTITLE: I’m waiting...

SUB SUBTITLE: “I thought it would be a confidence booster.”

Fade to Repete the Rejected.

TITLE: Repete the Rejected

SUBTITLE: Look, if you’re not gonna use me, why even put me up here? Geez-a-rama, can’t you get anything together? What, I’m just supposed to blah, blah, blah, till the whole screen is filled up? I could do that, but who has time to read it all? Get an editor, for the love o’ Pete!

SUB SUBTITLE: “Oh, yeah, right. ‘Embarrassed, there’s so much you have to do already that I’ve given you another assignment.”

Fade to black.

TITLE: And

SUBTITLE: Oh, just forget it.

SUB SUB TITLE: “Sorry. I meant well.”

Fade to blank space, same size as other still shots, but empty.

TITLE: Embarrassed to Be Associate with This Idea

SUBTITLE: I mean it. I’m gone.

SUB SUBTITLE:“Look, rather than redo the whole thing, let’s just end the credits and get on with the movie.”

BLACKOUT. Soundtrack comes to scratchy halt.

(Beat. Beat. Beat.)

SUB SUBTITLE: “I said, ‘get on with the movie!’”

MUSIC: Soundtrack swells up again as we go to:

SCENE: Exterior. Day. Grassy field. HOPEFUL WRITER, EAGER ILLUSTRATOR, NUMBED FINGERS, SINCERELY the SUBMITTED and REPETE the REJECTED are walking across the field together.

SS: That was the strangest keynote address I’ve ever been to.

EI: The Power Point presentation was nice.

NF: Yeah, I suppose, but what was the point of all the subtitles? They didn’t make any sense.

RR: I think it was an inside joke.

NF: Yeah, well, they could have let us in on it.

HW (looking in his packet): What does everybody else have next? I’ve got the agent.

SS: Me too.

NF: Same here.

EI: Writer’s Market says the agency reps artists too, so I signed up for it.

RR: Agent.

HW: Wait. Nobody signed up for Alan’s writer’s workshop?

ALL: (Murmurs of “no,” etc.)

NF: Oo, he’s gonna feel really bad.

RR: Naw. It’ll be just like a book signing.

ALL: (Murmurs of experienced agreement.)

TO BE CONTINUED...

Mars Day!*

2008-04-22T12:32:00.003-05:00

In honor of the day:

A Martian from Hellas Planetia
said to Viking, "I'm sure please to meet ya!"
The probe fell on his head,
which made him turn red
and shout, "Next time, I'll just plan to eat ya!"

--- Howard Shirley

(I wrote this a few years back and posted it on the 'Net. Sometime later I ran across a reference that makes me think it found its way to NASA, but I was never certain. So if you're at NASA and wondered where this one came from, you now know to blame me.)

*Yeah, I know it's actually "Earth Day." But what about the other planets? Why is it fair for only Earth to have a day? So I'm taking the hint from a private forum I'm a member of and celebrating Mars Day.** (Sorry, I can't give a link. Forum rules.)

** Okay, so actually I don't have any limericks about Earth.

The Rescue

2008-04-18T15:00:00.003-05:00

Out of the blackened wood he rode
into a dark grey dawn,
and thunder chased him with the wolves
over the barren lawn.
Up to the manor walls he flew,
as lightning licked his heels;
pursued by howls and thunderclaps
and the clash of distant steel.
With a splinter and crash the doors fell in,
kicked by his stallion's hooves,
and on he rode up the marble stairs,
without a look to the wolves.
The name he yelled from room to room
was drowned in the thunder’s cry,
and the savage howls of the wolves below
returned as his sole reply.

Out the window and growing near
fire raced down the road;
torches bright in the clouded light,
like gold from a demon's lode.

He leapt from his horse
to find her door, black as the night is dark.
He broke the lock with a pistol shot,
and hounds began to bark.
His sword was out, his blade was bright
with a light that filled the gloom;
His shoulder struck the blackened door;
her cry answered back from the room.
The door stood fast 'gainst all his blows,
held tight by a sorcerous spell,
and all his rage burned futilely bright
like an angel chained in Hell.
In the halls below arose the cries
of wolves and dogs and men,
of teeth and claws and musket blasts,
of death and battle's din.
Up the stairs the clatter came;
the clamor roared down the hall.
He turned away from the cries behind
as the blades began to fall.

His body lay outside the door;
The spell that held it fled.
She stepped in the glow of the morning light—
"You're rescued , lass," they said.

©2008 by Howard Shirley. All rights reserved.

--------

In case you're wondering, it's National Poetry Month. In honor of this, I thought I might offer a little something original for your enjoyment, hence the above, which has been languishing on my hard drive in various forms for several years. My goal in writing this was to capture the adventure poems I loved as a boy, which unfortunately I see very little of today. I also wanted to create a story poem that the reader could "fill in" as it were. Who is rescuing whom— and from what? Is the ending fortunate or tragic? You tell me what you see!

--- Howard Shirley

But Some Smell Just As Sweet

2008-03-30T14:44:00.006-05:00

In my last post I wrote (okay, raved) about Rosemary Sutcliff.

Well, I've found a successor.

If you love Sutcliff (and if you don't, what's wrong with you? ;-) ), then scurry over to your library or local bookstore and ask for books by Rebecca Tingle. Her first, The Edge on the Sword is a terrific historical novel in the Sutcliff tradition. Aethelflaed is the daughter of Alfred, King of Wessex. Educated and willful, Aethelflaed loves nothing better than to sneak out to ride the horses. But she is a king's daughter, promised in marriage to secure an alliance against the Danes who have invaded northern England. When conspirators attempt to kidnap her, Aethelflaed convinces her bodyguard— a thrall sent by her future husband— to teach her how to fight for herself. Eventually, Aethelflaed finds herself not only fighting, but leading men in a desperate battle against Danish raiders intent on her capture... or failing that, her death.

Tingle's treatment of this very real young lady is remarkable both for the way in which she captures the culture of the time, and for her terrific handling of both the action and suspense of the situation. Tingle's Aethelflaed is a wonderful character, true to her time yet very modern in her appeal, both to girls and boys. The book is also beautifully written, engaging from start to finish. Rooting for Aethelflaed to win is made all the more exciting by the historical reality of her triumph. What a great role model for young women... and what a great book.

Tingle has written an excellent sequel, Far Traveler, about the adventures of another young lady of Old England... but I'll let you read it to learn more, as her fate has much to do with Aethelflaed's.

Two books is a good start. Let's hope that Tingle returns again with another tale from history. I'll certainly be looking for it!

--- Howard Shirley

A Rosemary By Any Other Name...

2008-03-25T10:43:00.004-05:00

... would not read the same as Rosemary Sutcliff.

I first discovered Rosemary Sutcliff as a boy of 14, thanks to a recommendation by my 8th grade English teacher, Mrs. McElheny. My teacher knew of my love for King Arthur stories, and suggested I read The Lantern Bearers. I loved it. Here, for me, was something new. A book about King Arthur that had nothing to do with wizards or round tables or magic swords, but instead sprung from the shadowy history of Post-Roman Britain as the Romanized British fought a long struggle to hold back the Anglo-Saxon invaders. Here I first read of the Roman Empire's decline. I saw in the tale of Flavius how civilizations fail and fall, how cultures change or even disappear, and how that is simply the way the world works. And I met for the first time a cavalry leader named Artos, who may (or may not) have been the real King Arthur.

What a delicious, wonderful, beautiful, lyrical and exciting book. Battles. Swords. The Legions abandoning Britain. A legionnaire abandoning his duty to Rome for his duty to home. Desperate escapes. Bitter losses. Bitter anger. Useless revenge. And a war that began a legend. Forget the lousy Bruckheimer movie or the over-rated Zimmer-Bradley book. Rosemary Sutcliff's Artos will always be to me the real King Arthur.

Oddly, though I loved the book at the time, I did not read anymore Rosemary Sutcliff books for nearly twenty-five years. Then, in a game rulebook, I stumbled across a reference to her name and another title— The Eagle of the Ninth— and my memory of The Lantern Bearers came back. I promptly sought out The Eagle of the Ninth, bought it, and devoured it. That sent me to seek other books: Outcast, The Silver Branch, The Lantern Bearers, The Shining Company, The Mark of the Horse Lord, The Shield Ring, Sword Song... all of which have left me in awe of Rosemary Sutcliff's imagination, language, and gift for capturing vanished ages and filling her tales with people who are wonderfully real. And though her characters may never know each other, or even live generations apart in time, she skillfully weaves links between them— an heirloom, a trinket, or even simply a shared place, though centuries parted— like little hidden treasures for readers to discover. In the midst of real history, she gives her own creations a history as well. The result is like whispers echoing through time, a reminder that we, too, are connected with our past, and will send our own echoes down into the future.

And now for a little taste of the present. Though I have sought and read every book I could find of Sutcliff's saga of Britain, one book has remained elusively out-of-print: Sword at Sunset, Rosemary Sutcliff's treatment of the life of Artos himself and his final fate at the battle of Camlann against (or alongside?) Medraut... known to legend as Mordred. For an Arthurian fanatic like myself, it has been a Holy Grail that I despaired of finding. But no more. I just learned that Sword at Sunset has been reprinted. My quest will soon be at an end.

Take up the quest yourself and discover the treasure that is Rosemary Sutcliff. You'll enjoy every stroke of her pen.

--- Howard Shirley

Story Starter Challenge #3

2008-03-17T15:03:00.006-05:00

So, have you written anything lately? Need a kickstart? Here's another image for you.

What's most significant about this image is that there is a person. You cannot have a story without a person.

That doesn't mean your person has to be human, or even alive. Stories have been written about rabbits, dogs, rats, trains, cars, robots and even a toy canoe. But even if you write a story about a rock, in very short order you will discover that your rock gains personality, purpose, even dreams; it becomes a person.

So, back to the image. Here we have a place, a person, and an action (running).

Who is this person? Is it a he or she? (You decide.) What is the person's name? (You decide.) How old? (You decide.)

Where is this taking place? (You decide, of course!) When?

What is the structure?

And, of course, why is the person running?

There, I've given you a start. Look back at the other story starters (#1 and #2). Maybe you can combine these ideas. (Hey, if I saw a skull hanging in the trees in a strange wood, I might have a reason to run...)

As always, there is no right or wrong choice; just the one that makes your story better.

--- Howard Shirley

Write Now

2008-03-04T09:55:00.002-06:00

In my workshop on Sunday a young writer asked me how to write when he didn't feel like writing. As a writer, I've had times like that. I still do. You think about writing something, whether it's a project you're working on, or a new one you want to start, or even... well, even a blog entry, and you just don't feel up to the task. Nothing pulls you into the project. No ideas float into your head (they never do). Or you're convinced you have nothing to say. How do you write then?

My answer is one I have to credit to author Caroline B. Cooney— "You can do anything for 15 minutes." You grab a kitchen timer, set it for 15 minutes, sit down with pencil and paper (or in front of your computer) and write.

It doesn't matter what you write. It doesn't matter how you start. It doesn't matter if what you write turns out to be 90% garbage (which, so I've heard, everything is). It matters that you write.

When you're done, you can look back over the garbage and glean out the 10% that isn't garbage. And whatever isn't garbage... is treasure.

But you may just find that when the timer beeps or buzzes or dings (or whatever your timer does), you'll be annoyed with that timer. Because you don't want to stop writing. You're into your project. Your head is pouring over with ideas, and they have to come out right now. Or, best of all, you still have a lot more to say!

Hey, just because you've done something for 15 minutes doesn't mean you can't tack on another 15!

So here's today's challenge. Grab that timer. Tell your family that you are going to write now, and they aren't to interrupt you for twenty minutes (tell them "twenty" because they'll probably forget the last five). Pull out your journal. Open your word processor. Read the last few pages of your project. And write.
Write now.

--- Howard Shirley

Wizards, Writers and Workshops

2008-02-19T14:53:00.003-06:00

I'm in the middle of preparing for two upcoming classes, so I'm taking today to offer two shameless plugs:

The first class is my Hidden Treasures Writers' Workshop, which I am repeating at the Franklin Public Library in Franklin, TN on March 2 at 2 p.m.. If you've already been to this workshop, sign up and come again; there will be more treasure objects in the treasure bag and that means more ideas for your stories! If you never have tried out my treasure bag, come and discover the stories hidden in the objects around you. The class is open for writers ages 12 to 18 (parents and teachers are also welcome). Check with Phillip McAndrews, the Young Adult Librarian at the Franklin Public Library to register. This workshop is free to all attenders, but space is limited.

The second class is for fans of fantasy— particularly fans of a boy by the name of Harry Potter. Nothing occurs in a vacuum, and Harry Potter is no exception. J. K. Rowling borrowed from legend, myth and history to create Harry and the wizarding world. Her books are sprinkled with classic (and even more recent) allusions, some obvious, some cleverly hidden, but all fun to discover. Come find out about the tales that inspired The Boy Who Lived, in Myth & History Behind Harry Potter, Boy Wizard, offered March 4 from 6:30 p.m. to 8:30 p.m. at The University School of Nashville in Nashville, TN. For more information or to register go to www.eveningclasses.org. There is a fee for this class, and space is limited. (And if you come, you'll learn about my own family connection to the wizarding world...)

If you're interested in having me lead a readers' or writers' workshop for your school or organization, visit my website at www.howardshirleywriter.com for more information.

Story Starter Challenge #2

2008-02-14T14:59:00.003-06:00

Here again is another treasure I spotted not too long ago in a journey through the woods. Now, you tell me how it came to be there; what is the story of this object. Think about your questions: What is it? Where is it? Who put it there? And most importantly why?

For an added challenge, go back to Story Starter Challenge #1 and combine these two into a single story. The more elements you have, the stronger the story becomes.

And don't forget to share your story with others! A story that is not shared is a story that has not been told.

--- Howard Shirley

The Most Important Question

2008-01-14T14:16:00.000-06:00

If you've ever studied journalism, one of the first things you will learn about is the concept of "the lead." The lead is the opening paragraph of a news article. In a strictly news story (not a feature), the lead's job is to introduce the story and carry all the salient points that essentially summarize the story and pull the reader into the article. The journalism student is taught that five questions form the basis of any news article and any lead: Who, what, when, where and how. The body of the story then deals with the question "Why."

The reasons for this arrangement are two-fold. First, the news media providers are aware that most news readers are after the crucial facts of a story. These readers are more than likely to skim the opening paragraphs of a story and skip the rest. Secondly, newspapers exist to sell advertising space. Their objective, therefore, is to commit the least amount of space possible to articles and leave the maximum space available for advertising, while still maintaining the interest of the readership. If this means that an article must be cut before the ending is reached— even in the middle— the article will be cut. (In the old days of hand-done paste-up, the cutting was literal. The long column strip that contained the article was cut with a pair of scissors. The first part was pasted on the page, the excess either went to another page (if it couldn't be left out), or more likely fell to the floor to be swept up in the evening trash.) News writing, therefore, is intended to get as much into the start of the story as is possible, allowing the editors to cut the remainder of the article at any point, yet still know that the key facts are covered. The "why" is considered less essential.

Fiction, thankfully, isn't written this way. All of the questions from the news story still remain— the who, the what, the where, the how and the why— but as fiction writers we don't concern ourselves with a lead. Consider one of my favorite books, The Hobbit. If it were written as a news story, it might start something like this:

DATELINE HOBBITON: The recently lamented Bilbo Baggins, Esquire, stunned friends and family by arriving this morning during the auction scheduled to sell his supposed estate. Accompanied by the well-known, if not well-regarded, conjurer Gandalf (officially labeled a Disturber of the Peace, see related story page 5), Mr. Baggins gave forth an explanation of his absence involving an expedition into the interior of Middle-Earth with a company of dwarves from the Blue Hills of Lindon. Among his claims are an encounter with trolls ("A preposterous tale. Trolls are a myth," says Michel Delving Master of Antiquites and Other Lost Items, Tharbo Muckbuttom), and battles with goblins, elves, dwarves and men, and a treasure hoard protected by a dragon named Smaug. ("Purely legend. Nothing whatsoever to it," according to Muckbottom.)
Despite this absurd tale, Mr. Baggins was positively identified by Hamwise Gamgee, his gardener, Miller Aldo Sandyman, and Otto Proudfoot, all respected citizens of Hobbiton.
A request for a formal inquiry into Mr. Baggins's identity has been filed by an alleged cousin, Lotho Sackville-Baggins, Esquire. "Oh, it's a grand tale, alright. Trolls and goblins and dwarves and dragons. He'll be throwing giant spiders and dancing bears into it next, just you wait and see. How's he supposed to have gotten over the Misty Mountains, I ask you? Flying on giant eagles? What rubbish. He's an imposter, put up to it by that Gandalf fellow. Probably a spy for the dwarves, wanting to figure out the secrets of growing pipeweed." -30-

Lots of information there, but not quite the same thing as "Once upon a time, in a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit..." There's a great deal of who, where, and what, and even a bit of how, but the why is almost completely missing or utterly wrong. And in a story, it's the why that matters the most. News-style journalism aside, "why" is the most important question. More than anything else, it is the question that the other questions are truly out to answer— and it is the question that must be foremost in the mind of the writer. We can have our who, our where, our when, our what and our how, but unless we have a why our story will be flatter than the news article above. It's not enough to populate a tale with elves and dragons, magic rings and magic swords; we must fill our tale with "why." Why causes us to explore the depth of a story, and in exploring produce even more depth.

Consider the sequel to The Hobbit, the grand epic that is The Lord of the Rings. In a way, it all springs from asking one "why" question: Why does Gollum have a magic ring? In asking that question, Tolkien was forced to explore hundreds to thousands of who, what, when, where and how questions, all tumbling one after the other. The result was not just one story, but a rich trove of stories, some only hinted at, some told in full, all intertwined together— and all stemming from one simple question— the most important question: Why?

--- Howard Shirley

Taking Stock

2007-12-25T18:24:00.000-06:00

It's early evening on December 25. I'm thoroughly stuffed with Christmas dinner. I've opened presents and watched my family open theirs. My son is upstairs, practicing his tempo and finger-thumping on Guitar Hero III (Dad's turn comes later). And I'm sitting downstairs, looking at the lights on the tree and thinking about the day and the year.

I'm not going to say it's been an easy year; it hasn't. It's been a long year of learning (yet again) that nothing moves quickly in the publishing world, that "nays" outnumber "yaes," and that writing is a stressful way to make a living.

But there have been blessings as well.
I've been blessed by the love and patience of my wife— and most especially by her understanding. When well-meaning others have said something on the order of "you just need to write a bestseller like John Grisham," she understands just what a gut-punch a sentence like that is. She shares my frustration when another "no" comes in, and my elation when that rare and beautiful "maybe" arrives as well. And she assures me that the "yes" will indeed one day come. Surely her value is higher than rubies.

I've also been blessed by my critique group. They've offered me support and encouragement, as well as the honest advice necessary for the writer to succeed. As I've written before here, you cannot write alone and be a success. Tolkien and Lewis had the Inklings. I have been blessed to have the Knights of the Library Study Table. (Not really our official name. Our official name seems to be "the writers' group that gets together in Brentwood every Friday, more or less.") (You can visit the websites of two of my fellow writers via the links to the left.)

I've been blessed by the support of my regional chapter of SCBWI (also in the links to the left). Tracy Barrett, Candie Moonshower, Genetta Adair, Patsi Trollinger, and Alan Gratz have all offered encouragement and advice, which I treasure. I also have to extend my thanks to Ben Weiss and Jaramy Connor, from my e-mail critique group. There are undoubtedly others I've neglected to mention, for which I must beg forgiveness. Thanks to you all! (By the way, the links in this paragraph are to their web sites featuring some truly great books. If you want a good read for the holidays, you can't go wrong starting with these authors!)

I've been blessed, as I said, by a few "maybes—" those moments when an editor or agent says, "Yes, this sounds interesting. I'd love to read it." Those maybes are precious. And even on the few occasions when they turn into "nays," the "nays" occasionally turn out to be longer and more helpful than the form letter in the return envelope. (Like all writers, I hate those.)

Other blessings have come from family, from friends, from my church, and all from my God... the God whose Son's birth I sit and contemplate today.

So, on this day I offer thanks for blessings. I offer thanks for hope. And I offer thanks for love.

"And now these three remain: Faith, Hope and Love. But the greatest of these is Love."

May you too know these blessings.

Merry Christmas!

--- Howard Shirley (who's off to try my hand at Guitar Hero.)

Where Do You Get Your Ideas?

2007-12-10T15:19:00.000-06:00

My fellow writers recognize this question. It's the one question we're all guaranteed to hear, whether from readers or would be writers. I suspect the answer is the same for all of us: "Everywhere." Perhaps that's a bit general, but it's true, at least for me. My next idea may come from something I see, something I read, or a chance comment I overhear. Sometimes I don't even realize I've had an idea until it bounces around in my head for awhile, collides with a few other randomly bouncing tidbits, and then fuses to create something that makes the writer part of me think, "Hang on, that's interesting." And then I hang on to it, make a few notes about it, and then... then I forget about it for a long time.

You read that right. In fact, that's what happened with The Weaver of Atreia. I had the idea that became the story years ago— over 15 years ago. But that idea wasn't even for The Weaver of Atreia. It was for an entirely different story; a mystery set in a fantasy world. I made the outline for that mystery, and set it aside. Skip ahead to 2002 (give or take a year). That summer, I was approached to ghostwrite a novel for a recording artist. (Sometimes other people bring you their ideas. And then pay you to write them. I like that. ;-) ) I completed the book in about two months (I don't recommend that schedule, by the way). Having finished that project— my first effort at a book-length work*— I realized that I could indeed write a novel. All I needed was the idea.

So I searched through my old notes and found the outline for the mystery story. But it needed a lot of work. For one thing, it needed background. And it needed a stronger, more original setting. And it needed... a protagonist.

As I set to work on the setting and background, I remembered a book I had read as a teenager about the medieval guild system of Western Europe and the Hanseatic League. I decided a culture based on a stronger version of the guild system would be an interesting setting— and from that decision a young apprentice named Devon popped into my head. The story's background then sprung from, among other things, the Norman Conquest of England, the Byzantine Empire, the Persian invasions of ancient Greece, the medieval English wool trade, and the rise of the merchant class which led to the Renaissance. (The great thing about fantasy writing is that you can borrow from all sorts of historical settings and events, mix them up, and create something unexpected.)

So I sat down and wrote the book right away... well, not exactly. I wrote the first few pages, and set it aside to work on something else. A few months later, I picked it up again and wrote three chapters. And then I set it aside again. For three years. (I don't recommend this writing schedule, either.)

That's when my wife stepped in. She asked me if I was serious about writing books. I assured her I was. She then advised me to attend a writers conference and join a writers organization. (Advice to writers: Get married. Motivation sometimes has to come from a kick in the pants.) She discovered the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators . She discovered the local chapter was hosting a writers' conference. She told me to join and told me to go. Being a reasonably wise husband, I did as I was told.

Following the conference, I was charged. I was motivated. I wrote another chapter!

My wife was not impressed. (Advice to writers: One chapter is not a novel. Nor is one more chapter.) Clearly, I needed more than one conference.

So I went for the biggie: the 2005 SCBWI Summer Conference in Los Angeles. Plane tickets, conference fees, and arrangements to bunk with my brother-in-law followed. And I wrote two more chapters! (Advice to writers: Two more chapters aren't a novel either.)

At the conference I had a great critique from writer Q. L. Pearce, met some terrific fellow SCBWI members, heard some eye-opening advice from writers, editors and agents, and realized... I was in need of help. Specifically, I needed a writers critique group. (Advice to writers: Don't work alone. Write alone, yes. Work alone, no. Get to know other writers. Share your work. Hear their opinions. And listen to them.)

In a remarkable turn of events that I can only attribute to Divine intercession, several local writers were interested in starting just such a group. We had our first meeting in a Borders bookstore cafe in Brentwood, Tennessee. After trying to talk over the cappucino machine twice, we moved to the Brentwood Public Library. Two years later, we're still there.(If you hear a noisy bunch of writers in a backroom on Friday mornings, that's us. Forgive us. Writing is indeed a silent occupation, but when writers gather, all that silence explodes.)

Our schedule was (and is) weekly. The critique schedule we set up was an absolutely naïve one calling for one chapter per person every two weeks.

It's amazing how quickly you can critique six chapters.

It's amazing how that, when your critique group has critiqued your fifth chapter, you realize you had better be writing more chapters if you're going to keep up with that two week schedule. And avoid kicks in the pants from both your spouse and the six other writers in your group.

Over the course of a year, I suddenly found I had lots of ideas. And prodded by my wife and my critique group I wound up with lots of chapters. (Advice to writers: Lots of chapters? Now, that could be a book.)

So, where do I get my ideas? I get them from reading. I get them from writing. I get them from remembering. And, yes, I get them from daydreaming.

You can too.

(Just remember to write them down— the difference between an idea and a fleeting thought is often at the point of a pencil.)

--- Howard Shirley

*Yes, the ghostwritten novel was published. Unfortunately, by the terms of my contract I can't identify the book or the person whom I wrote for. I take comfort in that I was well paid. :-)

Story Starter Challenge #1

2007-11-29T14:48:00.000-06:00

I found this old hollow tree a few weeks ago. It has the "look" of story all about it— and I'm offering that story to you. Tell me about this tree. What is its story? Does something live in it— or someone? Is something hidden in it? Where is the tree? When is it (past, present, future)? Give us a story! It can be as long or as short as you like. When you're done, share it with your friends. You can also share it here; just post it in the comments or send me an e-mail. If I like it (and it meets the family-friendly nature of this site), I'll add it to the blog under your by-line.

--- Howard Shirley

(Photo ©2007 by Howard Shirley)

Two Roads Diverged into a Yellow Wood...

2007-11-26T16:57:00.000-06:00

Writing, like life, is about making choices. Where will the characters go? What will they say? What will they do? As a writer, you make the choice. Each choice opens up more choices, as each "way leads on to way." Like Robert Frost's poem, it's up to you whether you take the well-traveled route or "the one less traveled—" or crash into the wood of story itself and make your own path, a new path. It won't be easy; trailblazing never is. But at the end you will have created something new, a path that others will want to follow, perhaps to a destination no one has ever seen. So choose your path, and each path after, always striving to find the new way, the way that leads to something fresh, something magical, something unexpected— and that, indeed, will "make all the difference."

--- Howard Shirley

(Photo ©2007 by Howard Shirley)

You Never Know What Will Land in Your Backyard

2007-11-19T10:57:00.000-06:00

FWOOOOOOOOSSSHHH!!!!
FWOOOOOOOOSSSHHH!!!!

The sound filtered through my study window and simmered in my brain. Sounds like... gas escaping... my brain finally told me. GAS ESCAPING!!! NOT AGAIN!!! (the last bit because the previous Saturday workers installing a sprinkler system for our neighbor struck the gas line, causing all sorts of excitement). I rushed out the front door to see what new disaster had come.

The sound was indeed of gas rushing (score 1 for my brain), but not from a new leak. The sound came from the propane burner of a hot air balloon. It drifted down our street, just over housetop level, bringing with it excitement of its own. Kids and adults ran down the street chasing it; cars pulled into our neighborhood. One dad hopped out of an SUV with his teenage daughters and said to me, "I'm forty-one, and I'm more excited than they are!"

Hey, I'm forty-two, and I'm with you, buddy!

The balloon passed over a neighbor's house with about ten feet to spare, and then settled gently into the field that backs up to our houses. We were gathered around like villagers in 17th century France, chattering about the visitor from the skies. (Fortunately for the passengers, we opted not to bring pitchforks to slay the monster.) The operators allowed the balloon to deflate, jumping up and down on the bag to force the remaining air out, to the cheers of gathered boys and adults. In a short while it was packed, loaded in the trailer of a chase vehicle, and we were all left with a story to share with each other.

And now I have shared that story with you!

The moral? Keep your ears and eyes open: you never know what story my sail gently down and land in your own backyard.

--- Howard Shirley

STORY CHALLENGE: Imagine a balloon lands in your backyard. Where did it come from? Who is riding in it? Why are they there? And What will happen next?!?

Fine Young Writers

2007-11-13T12:17:00.000-06:00

One purpose of this blog is to share not only my experiences as a writer, but the experiences of other writers I encounter— and to encourage you to be a writer as well. So I'd like to begin by sharing a recent experience I had with a group of gifted young writers who attended one of my workshops.

The workshop was hosted by the Franklin Public Library in my hometown of Franklin, TN (you can find the library here ), at the request of their excellent YA librarian, Phillip McAndrew. As with many writers, there's always the fear that you will enter the library and find yourself on the set of a new movie titled What If They Gave a Workshop and Nobody Came? It's irrational (well, not completely), but it's there.

Fortunately, on this day my fears were completely unfounded. Within minutes of my arrival, the room filled up with fifteen young writers (and one brave adult). The paper and pencils were passed around, I chatted about myself, writing, and other odd bits, and then we got down to business.

I call my workshop "Hidden Treasures," because it's all about discovering that almost anything can hide a hidden treasure— the hidden treasure that we call "story." We began by pulling an object from my Hidden Treasures bag— in this case, a bracelet— and asking questions about that object. What is it? What is its purpose? Is it what it is, or what it represents? (For example, is a toy soldier a toy soldier, or does it represent a real soldier?) Who has the object? How did they get it? Why do they have it? Do they want it?
The questions continue, going into when, where, how and why, but this should give you the idea. The purpose is to discover the story hidden in the object. (And the great thing is, the story can change for the same object, just by changing the answers.)

After brainstorming together, each young writer got the chance to pull their own object out of the bag— and a mixed bag of objects it was— and craft their own story starters by asking questions about their finds.

(As an aside, it was an absolute delight to see fifteen heads bowed down over a table, with the only sound in the room being the scratching of pencils on paper. For a moment, I thought I was giving a standardized test; only it was a lot more fun, and nobody could get a wrong answer.)

Fifteen minutes later we shared a few of our story ideas— and what terrific story ideas there were! An abstract chess piece became a huge pillar in a city built by dragons; an earring became the symbol of a corrupt royal house in a vast empire; a bracelet became the key to a secret code, kept by a girl who must spy on her own husband. I can't share all the stories with you (after all, they're not my stories to tell!), but I think and hope that someday these young writers will do so.

Why not try the experiment yourself? Pick an object, or even an idea, and start asking questions. You may stumble upon a treasure trove you never knew you had.

--- Howard Shirley

P.S. If you'd like for me to bring the Hidden Treasures workshop to your library, school or writing group, just contact me through my web site: www.howardshirleywriter.com

A Very Good Place to Start.

2007-11-08T16:28:00.001-06:00

Mark Twain once said of writing, "Start at the beginning, write until you come to the end, then stop."*
It's hard to argue with anything said by Mark Twain. (About writing at least. What he said about investments in typesetting machines is another issue.) So I'll go with Mr. Twain's advice.

This is the beginning of my blog. Here I will write about my books, my workshops, others' books, others' workshops, writing, things happening in life, a game or two, and whatever strikes my fancy. Here, if you wish, you can read about those things.

Why should you read all this? Because (I hope) you will find it interesting, entertaining, and just maybe helpful.

If you've come here from my website (www.howardshirleywriter.com), then you know a little about me. But if you've come here from somewhere else, I'll start with a brief bio.

I am a writer. I write novels, stories, scripts, articles, book reviews and other assorted items, all of which you can learn about at my website (see the link above). This blog is mostly about my work writing for children and young adults— though, quite honestly, I write my books for everyone. If you like a good story and appreciate a well-told tale, I believe you will like my books, whether you are nine, nineteen, or ninety.

Currently one of my books is available— Acts for God: 38 Dramatic Sketches for Contemporary Services, published in 2005 by Meriwether Publishing. Think "Saturday Night Live" with a family-friendly flair. (If you're old enough to remember Isaac Air Freight, you'll understand what I mean. If you're not, well, you'll just have to read it.)

The Weaver of Atreia is my latest novel, a young adult fantasy about a failed apprentice turned soldier, an assassin's plot and a guild of spies. It's not in print yet, but I am delighted to say that editors have requested it, so cross your fingers, say a prayer, and hope for good news very soon. And if you want to know a little more about The Weaver of Atreia, or any of my books, just visit my website.

So now you know a little about me and why I'm writing this.

It's time to follow the last part of Mr. Twain's advice. I'll do so with another pithy quote. Winston Churchill once said, not of writing, "This is not the end. This is not the beginning of the end. But it may be the end of the beginning."*

And so is this.

--- Howard Shirley

*Both quotes are paraphrased from my memory, so don't expect them to be correct. And yes, the last is about the Battle of Britain, not writing.