Inspiration – Page 2 – The Writers in Residence

HOW I FOUND MYSELF WORKING AS A WRITER IN RESIDENCE OF A HIGH-SECURITY MALE PRISON

by Hannah Dennison

I’m excited to introduce our special guest today Sunday Times bestselling thriller author Jane Corry. As you’ll soon learn, Jane’s writer-in-residence experience is quite simply extraordinary.

Jane – welcome!

My novelist career took off when I went from being a features writer on a well-known women’s magazine to prison.

I’m not joking. But I should add that I was a writer in residence at a prison rather than being a prisoner myself.

My story started the month I got divorced from my first husband after 27 years of marriage. Two weeks later, my weekly magazine column ended due to a staff shake-up. Although I had maintenance, I found myself in need of extra income in order to bring up my three children.

After moving house, my new neighbor suggested that I look in the papers for work. I hadn’t applied for a job for 27 years—I’d been a freelancer since my children were born. But there it was—an advert saying, ‘Wanted! A writer in residence of a high-security male prison.’

Frankly, I didn’t think I had a chance. After all, I didn’t have any experience of prison, either from the outside or in. Indeed, the only crime I’d ever committed was to park on a double yellow line.

But the money they offered was exactly what I needed to pay my mortgage – to a penny.

My sister and friends didn’t think I should apply. In fact, they thought I was crazy even to consider it. I was, as they pointed out, in a bad place emotionally. How was it going to help me to work in a prison? I like to think it helped both me and my students, but I’ll come onto that in a moment.

I was very surprised to get an interview and not at all surprised to fluff it up. The governor asked what I would do if a prison officer came into the room where I was running a writing class and told everyone to get out. I said that I would get them to stop in the middle of the sentence so it would make it easier for them to come back to it – it’s a good writing technique. He looked at me, his eyebrows raised. ‘And by that stage,’ he pointed out drily, ‘half the prison would have escaped.’

He had a point. From that moment, I relaxed because I knew I’d blown it. So you can imagine his surprise when he rang that evening and offered me the job.

On my first day, I was given the keys to the prison. To be precise, I was handed a key belt and told that I had to lock any doors that I unlocked and went through, otherwise I’d be out on my heels. I also had to make sure that I signed in every night and handed the key back.

My role was to be a sort of literary Pied Piper. I wasn’t part of the education department, where people had to come to my lessons. I had to woo them in through notices which I put up round the prison. I printed them out with titles such as ‘Come and join my workshop to write a letter, novel, short story, life story.’

Life stories were particularly popular. I learnt more about crime than I care to talk about. I will say, however, that I was reduced to tears of shock and horror by one man’s story. He then apologized for upsetting me and I told him he should be apologizing to the people he had held up and threatened with death.

I entered his life story for the Koestler Awards, given to men and women for art and writing in prison and he won a silver. His behaviour immediately changed for the better and the guards said that it was due to his new-found story telling skills. He told me that if he hadn’t expressed his remorse on paper, he might have banged his head against the wall.

On the whole, I was treated very well in the prison, although there were times when I was scared. I was followed around at one point by a man who – when I looked up his crime – had tried to kill his girlfriend. I didn’t look up any crimes after that apart from the former accountant who had been a rapist. I don’t want to go into that. He seemed such a nice man.

One night, the governor asked if I would spend the night in the prison for a charity drive. I would have turned down the invitation but the money was going to help pay for my next year at the prison. So I felt obliged. It was terrifying being locked in. There was a bowl under the bed for my business. I spent all night typing. The gov had allowed me to bring my typewriter in. In the middle of the night, an officer knocked on my door and asked what I was doing. I told him I had permission to write and reluctantly he went away.

On other occasions, I brought in writer friends to talk, including Colin Dexter. The men asked him how he got his inspiration. He told them that it was a large bottle of malt whiskey. This didn’t go down well with the officers, but the men thought he was wonderful.

When I started my prison job, I was told that the men either spent their leisure time in the gym or in the chapel. That stayed in my mind. Then as I walked past the gym, with sounds of machinery pounding, a title fell into my head. The Book Of Uncommon Prayer. So I asked both the men and the staff to write down sayings that helped them through life. I’d written something similar for the women’s magazine earlier. It seemed to go down well and also improve relations between some staff and men.

My two year contract was extended to 3 years. They then asked me to stay for a fourth but I thought that I might never leave. By then I’d got married again so I said goodbye but I volunteered to be a judge for the Koestler Awards and have done so now for the past ten years. Every summer, I go up to Wormwood Scrubs and leaf through entries. The winners’ work is displayed at the Southbank in London every autumn.

I gave up romantic fiction and began writing gritty suspense novels about families who’d been affected by crime, either as aggressors or victims. I changed agents and my new one sold me to Penguin. I’ve since had eight top ten Sunday Times best-sellers.

People sometimes ask if I miss my old life. Actually, it haunts me. You can take the girl out of the prison. But you can’t take the prison out of the girl.

You can buy my new novel ‘I DIED ON A TUESDAY’ in supermarkets, shops and https://bit.ly/3SE8UVi. Thank you. You can also find out more about my books at www.janecorryauthor.com,

The book on Amazon

Teaching a Writing Class?

by Jill Amadio

Teach a writing class? I have enough trouble getting myself to work on my next mystery, of which I only have one-third finished. However, I am working full-speed on my new career as a writing coach.

Westport, CT, has more than its share of elderly, I was told at the town’s country-club-style senior center where I use their gym. The executive director figured many of the members would love to write their life story if only they knew how.

Interesting, I thought, because I have been looking for a paying job. I’ve written four biographies under my own name and a few as co-author. My greatest contribution to assisting another person’s attempt to get their autobiography on the page has been as a ghostwriter. I’ve written 15 for clients. This is the kind of book you can write with no repercussions tied to your own fragile persona. No one can take potshots at you for you putting on the published page swipes or dislikes for certain relatives, remembered experiences that showed others as fools, or perhaps an opportunity to lay bare your absolute hatred of your cousin’s prize poodle. I do, however, urge a client’s caution, and I try to appeal to their good nature if they have one.

So, did I want to take up the challenge of teaching some old fogies like myself how to write their memoirs? The idea appealed to me. I had never taught anyone anything in my whole life. Well, maybe a few table manners to my kids. So, yes, I accepted the challenge to help anyone over 65 jot down their life story in presentable and publishable form.

Creating a curriculum was my first worry. What would I teach? The elements of style came immediately to mind. I’d want to know how to structure a book, create my personal style, and how to write down my thoughts and feelings. I’d want to know how to describe places and people, events and experiences that had made up my world since birth and were still occupying my psyche both physically and mentally.

For the first class, I asked my students to create a Timeline, a list of each year of their life with a significant note, and a few words to mark why it was memorable.

I decided that handouts were important because I had always loved receiving them at writers’ conferences, so I found Rudy Vallee’s timeline I’d created back in 1989, as well as a champion cowboy’s timeline that chronicled his trek across America from coast to coast on horseback. One handout was a list of 106 descriptive verbs I’ve used for years.

In addition to the Timeline, I also mapped out writing techniques and elements for the following classes. In addition to Structure, Style, and Context, I added how to write Characters, Flashbacks, Settings, Cliffhangers, Editing, Beginnings and Endings, Publishing, and Marketing. I became so enamored of my advice I began to inspect my own WIP and make changes. I dredged up a few tips and notes I’d taken at various conferences and thus was able to flesh out my curriculum.

An observation about the students. They were extremely keen to learn how to write their memoirs. It was clear some of them had been thinking about writing such a tome for a few years but had no idea how to do it. By the homework I gave them, i.e. the Timeline, they returned to class time and time again more enthusiastic than ever. I told them to always interrupt me any time with questions, hoping that my fear they’d forget them before the end of class was not apparent.

Among these senior students, limited to 12, were a school bus driver, a poet, an attorney, an ad saleswoman, a lady from Germany who escaped the Nazis, a couple of teachers, a financier, and an accountant. One gentleman dropped out after lesson #2 because he said now that he was about to describe his life, he found it too painful to do so. Another gentleman said he doubted he would continue because as a reporter, he was trained to write lean, and that was the antithesis of writing a book. I told him I’d initially experienced the same hesitation when I was first approached about ghostwriting. My editor at the magazine I wrote for said that a CEO had called asking for a referral to a writer for his business book. Before calling him back with a recommendation, she asked me if I’d be interested.

“A book? A whole book? No way!” I said. “I enjoy writing the 3,000-word articles for the magazine, but 70,000 words? Forget it.”

“Think of it this way,” the editor said. “Approach each chapter as an article. And the pay is really good.”

“Oh. Okay, I’ll do it.”

After that first book, I received many referrals and became a ghostwriter. A few people contacted me through my website, www.ghostwritingpro.com. One client, a banker, asked me to ghostwrite her novel about financial fraud.

“Hmm,” I said. “Sounds a bit boring. How about we add a murder to spice it up?”

“Yes! How many murders can we have?”

The publishing of that book inspired me to create my own Tosca Trevant mystery series while I continued to ghostwrite as my main source of income.

Back to my seniors’ class. The atmosphere was informal, friendly, and focused. I showed them several of my memoirs and said that although we only had eight hours in total with which to cover the subject, it at least would get them started thinking and planning.

By lesson #4, we all felt comfortable with each other reading aloud the homework. One lady was writing her memoir only for her grandchildren and refused to share it with us. But everyone else was eager for everyone’s critique. The lawyer fella incorporated funny poems into his memoir, and someone else brought us to chuckles with her descriptions of working in a donut shop as a teenager. The German lady brought us to tears with her childhood memories of fleeing the Nazis

That first 8-hour course was popular enough to be repeated, and later in the spring, I shall be teaching How to Write a Short Story or Essay. Luckily, when I lived in Laguna Woods, CA several of my stories were published in the community’s anthologies over the years, although I can’t remember ever writing an essay. Tips for my seniors, anyone?

Jill’s article was posted by Jackie Houchin

Writing About Bloodhounds & Pet Detection

Guest post by Landa Coldiron

I’m a Bloodhound Handler. I’ve been using my bloodhounds to find lost pets for 18 years.

I recently had a book published by Austin Macauley about my work as a pet detective. It is a work of ‘faction,’ as I like to call it. Some stories are true, some are fiction, and some are combined (real and made up).

It is titled ‘The Bloodhound Handler—Book One: Adventures of a Real-life Pet Detective.’ Like people, in search and rescue, search dogs are used for a direction of travel that can locate the pet, provide evidence, clues, and eyewitnesses, and /or target a search area where resources can be deployed. In my book, I wrote about these abilities in stories, using the character Kalinda Dark as me.

My book is currently available on Amazon as a paperback or Kindle. It is a great action adventure with some mystery and has had many positive reviews. It has also been featured at Barnes & Noble.

I wrote the book a few years ago after my first bloodhound, Ellie Mae, died. She was young, and it took me by surprise. I knew I had to write about her and our life together. Ella Mae won the 2011 California Veterinary Medical Association Animal Hall of Fame award for her work in finding lost pets.

Writing The Bloodhound Handler book took me three years of writing every day and another two years of rejections. Finally, I got an offer from a publisher!

The book also contains stories about Glory, my second bloodhound. She won the American Humane Search Dog of the Year in 2015. It was a national award over a weekend at the Beverly Hilton. Many celebrities were in attendance. Glory won over 500 other dogs in the category.

We were also flown to Washington, DC, to speak in front of a small congressional hearing on the lost pet problem in America. You can search her name on YouTube under American Humane, and you will find her story. It is really something. Glory has a Facebook following of over 16,000 people!

Thanks to anyone who supports my book. If you are an avid Kindle reader it is only $4.50 and even has colored pictures.

Landa Coldiron is a two-time award-winning bloodhound handler in Los Angeles. Her website and Facebook are Lost Pet Detection, and her Instagram is @thebloodhoundhandler.

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NOTE from Jackie: I knew and wrote about Landa for a newspaper when I lived only blocks from her in Shadow Hills. I was privileged to watch Ellie Mae in action and learn about what pet owners can do when their pet goes missing. (The book covers this too.)

Landa has also owned and trained Cadaver Dogs for her work.

The Bloodhound Handler book is a fascinating read. It follows cases of lost (or stolen) pets from the first panicked telephone call through the process to the ending, which is sometimes joyous and thrilling and sometimes disheartening. One case toward the end of the book involves a missing dog and little girl and reads like it was “ripped from the headlines.” I enjoyed it very much.

A Woman in Journalism – Nellie Bly

by Jackie Houchin

(Note to self: Use this article as a base – review two books written about her – “Ten Days In A Madhouse” and “Nellie Bly & Investigative Journalism for Kids.” Fill in info from other sources, use the three photos (her in 1890 and the book jackets.) )

Eighteen-year-old Elizabeth Cochrane was living in Pittsburgh when the local newspaper published an article titled “What Girls are Good For” (having babies and keeping house was the answer, according to the article). The article displeased Elizabeth enough that she wrote an anonymous rebuttal, which in turned so impressed the paper’s editor that he ran an ad, asking the writer to identify herself.

When Elizabeth contacted him, he hired her on the spot. It was customary at the time for female reporters to use pen names, so the editor gave her one that he took from a Stephen Foster song. It was the name under which she would become famous—Nellie Bly.

Bly’s passion was investigative reporting, but the paper usually assigned her to more “feminine” subjects—such as theater and fashion. After penning a controversial series of articles uncovering the working conditions of female factory workers, and subsequently being assigned once more to cover society events and women’s pastimes, at the age of 21, Bly embarked on a hazardous and unprecedented (for a woman) mission to Mexico to report on the living conditions of the working-class individuals there.

After her reporting got her in trouble with the local authorities, she fled the country and later published her dispatches into a popular book.

At age 23, having established a reputation as a daring and provocative reporter, Bly was hired by Joseph Pulitzer’s New York World and there she began the undercover project that made her famous. In order to investigate the conditions inside New York’s “Women’s Lunatic Asylum,” Bly took on a fake identity, checked into a women’s boarding house, and faked insanity—so convincingly that she soon found herself committed to the asylum.

The report she published of her ten days there was a sensation and led to important reforms in the treatment of the mentally ill.

The following year Bly undertook her most sensational assignment yet: a solo trip around the world inspired by Jules Verne’s Around the World in 80 Days. With only two days’ notice, Bly set out on November 14, 1889, carrying a travel bag with her toiletries and a change of underwear, and her purse tied around her neck.

Pulitzer’s competitor, the New York Cosmopolitan, immediately sent out one of its reporters—Elizabeth Bisland—to race Bly, traveling in the opposite direction. As Pulitzer had hoped, the stunt was a publicity bonanza, as readers eagerly followed news on Bly’s journey and the paper sponsoring a contest for readers to guess the exact time of Bly’s return (with the correct guess winning an expense-paid trip to Europe).

Seventy-two days later, Bly made her triumphant return (four and half days ahead of Bisland), having circumnavigated the globe, traveling alone almost the entire time. It was the fastest any human had ever made the journey. Nellie Bly was an international celebrity.

At age 31 Bly married industrialist Robert Seaman, a 73-year-old millionaire, leaving behind her journalism career and her pen name. As Elizabeth Cochrane Seaman she helped run the family business. She patented two inventions during her time as an industrialist, but business was not her really in her skillset and under her leadership the company went bankrupt.

When World War I broke out, she returned to journalism, becoming one of the first women reporters to work in an active war zone.

Nellie Bly’s remarkable life ended on January 27, 1922, when she died of pneumonia in New York at age 57.

SPRING INTO WRITING

by Miko Johnston

Ah, what a year it’s been, beginning with a harsh and, in some places, treacherous winter. So far, spring has not been much better or safer in many parts of the country. It took a long while to arrive and settle down on the West Coast. Hubby and I took a last-minute vacation to sunny Sicily to escape the cold and gloom for a few weeks and postponed our annual winter trip to LA for months until we could travel around by car instead of rowboat. Both escapes kept me away from writing for a while.

I’ve always enjoyed spring, a time of renewal, and probably more so this year after the winter we’ve been through. Thoughts turn from shoveling snow to shoveling dirt in the garden, from watching the overflowing rivers subside to marveling at the regeneration of fauna and flora.

Part of that rejoicing can include a return to writing. Here are some suggestions to inspire you.

I Change it up

If you’re finding it difficult to focus on your manuscript, or daunting to consider starting one, then don’t. Think about other things to write: short stories, flash fiction, a travel memoir, a chapter from your life. Perhaps a letter – yes, snail mail – to a long lost friend or relative. Buy (or make) some blank-inside cards and create your own birthday, anniversary, get well, and sympathy messages.

In short, forget about your WIP for now, but don’t stop putting words on the page. As we always say, writing is writing.

II Revisit

If you’re writing in more than one point of view and your WIP isn’t going forward, you may have the wrong character in the driver’s seat.

I recently critiqued pages from a romantic suspense novel which had two protagonists. One chapter felt stodgy IMO, and the female came off as cold and unkind. The author had written the scenes in the male character’s point of view, so he only got to observe her behavior. I suggested redoing the chapter in the female’s POV, since she was undergoing the emotional upheaval. I felt if the reader understood what led to her bad behavior, they would find her more sympathetic.

If you get stuck, try rewriting the troublesome scene in another character’s POV.

III Revise

One of my favorite quotes about writing has always been: “Books aren’t written – they’re re-written”. Not everyone accepts or believes that.

Some writers tend to think it’s permanent once you’ve written something. We forget that until a manuscript is published, it can always be changed. In my last book, I introduced new characters whom I barely knew. I stopped writing when Covid hit before returning to the partial manuscript a year and a half later. As the story developed I got to “know” the new characters better. With my first draft complete, I went back to their first appearance to find vague conversations and a lack of detail. Using my more intimate knowledge of these characters, I sharpened their dialogue and expanded their descriptions.

If your characters are flat and generic, get to know them better. If your opening doesn’t grab the reader’s attention, your middle sags, or your ending falls flat, rework that section until you’ve solved the problem (for suggestions and tips, search through our archives, including my BACK TO BASICS: WRITER’S BOOT CAMP series).

IV Forget about Perfection

The opposite problem is to get locked into revisions, snipping away or changing words, sometimes back and forth, all in an attempt to make the manuscript flawless. It won’t happen. It never happens. Finish it. Polish it. Then hire a good editor who will clean up your grammar as well as plot holes. Lastly, find a beta reader, or readers, to give you an unbiased opinion. Do the best work you can, and then let it go.

Trust me, I understand how difficult it can be to carve out time to write, especially if we have no pressing need (such as a deadline from our publisher) to do it. However, remember this: you can’t call yourself a writer if you don’t write.

Now please excuse me, I have a novel to finish.

Miko Johnston, a founding member of The Writers in Residence, is the author of the historical fiction series, “A Petal in the Wind”, as well as a contributor to several anthologies including the about-t0-be-released “Whidbey Island: An Insider’s Guide”. Miko lives in Washington (the big one) with her rocket scientist husband. Contact her at mikojohnstonauthor@gmail.com

Slipped my mind…

Oh, no! I was so involved with my SELF this week, that I forgot my coveted place here in the rotation for The Writers in Residence. So, this is a quickie catch-up.

HOAG Cancer Center is where I’m now spending my days – like, EVERY day – after the breast cancer surgery I had back in March. Now I’m going through 15 days of preventative Radiation, so (hopefully) that nasty cancer stuff doesn’t come back. (At least the chances are lessened.)

Meet ELEKTA.

She’s my partner for about 15 minutes every day. She circles me like a rising and setting sun four times, shooting the “anti” death ray at my left chest area. I hear a high-pitched “zinging” noise and feel a slight warmth, but nothing else. I thought my skin would get “cooked,” but nothing yet, just a feeling of tightness. I thought I would experience fatigue, but also not yet. (Of course, so many people are praying for me!!)

A woman who was scheduled after me yesterday, says she is on Day 12, and the fatigue has hit her. My Radiologist talked to me today, and when I told him I was surprised at the lack of skin burning, he said. “The sunburn will come in week three. Just keep applying that radiation cream two to three times each day.”

Believe me, I do.

That funny crunched white glob under ELEKTA’s eye on the table is a molded pillow they made when I was “mapped” for radiation two weeks ago. It holds my shoulders, head, and left arm stretched above and over my head in the exact same position. So there’s no messing around each time I come in. The molded pillow is situated. I lay back and fit my arm and shoulders in it. They expose my left breast, line up the machine over the markers on my chest, and tell me, “Don’t move.” (Yes, I have weird PLUS and MINUS signs semi-permanently pasted on me for ELEKTA to read.)

About now, you are thinking, “Wait, I thought this was a writing blog. What’s with all this medical stuff.” Hey, have you ever heard of Robin Cook’s books? (Coma, Toxin, Fatal Cure), Michael Palmer (Miracle Cure), Tess Gerritsen (The Surgeon), etc. Yes, so I know I’m not an author like them, but I AM writing about my Cancer Journey, and reviewing books that pertain to it. I’m writing my “Journey” on Substack, and on Friday, I’ll post the next weekly update, titled “RADIATION & ME.” (You guys get a mini-sneak peek here.)

If you want to read last week’s post, here is the link, VULNERABLE & EXPOSED.

If that doesn’t work for you, go on Substack and search for “Jackie’s Musings & Meanderings.” I have about thirty I’ve been writing, but the last seven are on my cancer journey. You can subscribe (but no pressure), and it’s FREE. Don’t get tricked into paying. Not needed.

So, you see, I AM writing. Each day, I quiz the technicians on something I want to know about so I can include it in next week’s Substack post. (And maybe the following week too, as I finish up.)

Do you have any questions or comments? If you click on the title of this post—SLIPPED MY MIND—you can find the spot below to do that.

SEPARATING CRITIQUE FROM CRITICISM

by Miko Johnston

Unlike some of you, I never took creative writing classes. Early in my adult life, thanks to dropping out of college, I floundered in various low-level clerical positions to earn my way, but writing was my dream job. By luck I got to meet a writer whom I admired, and told him of my goal. “I want to be a writer,” I said. He responded, “Then why aren’t you?” I realized I’d asked a meaningless question. I should have been more specific – “I want to write professionally”. That’s when I returned to college and eventually became a journalist. I lost that career after a car crash and five year recovery period. Still, the urge to write persisted.

About forty years ago I decided to switch to writing fiction and began working on a series of short stories based on a childhood pet, thinking they might make good children’s books. I showed them to a good friend, who knew me ‘back when’, as well as the critter in question. I thought the stories were cute, funny and clever; as the character grew up, the storylines and maturity of the writing grew with her. My friend’s reaction? “They’re terrible.” Disheartened, I filed the stories away in a drawer. Care to guess how long it took for me to write again?

Eventually I dipped my toe in the writing world once more, this time with the idea of writing a novel. I slowly built my skills by writing, studying authors whom I respected, and reading books on the subject, but mostly by participating in writers groups.

I joined an established critique group about twenty-five years ago, where I met several of my fellow WInRs. I credit the core members with guiding me though the completion and polishing of my manuscript for publication, and like most who stuck around in the group, I eventually did get it published.

I can still recall presenting Chapters 1 – 5 of what is now my first novel, A Petal in the Wind. I’d compressed what eventually became my entire novel into fifty pages. I also recall the group’s unanimous opinion: to put it kindly, not good, but they explained WHY. No character development, hardly any scene setting or sensory details, and worst of all, an unrealistic reaction by my protagonist, thereby committing the worst crime in fiction by presenting a totally unbelievable situation. Their comments were tough to hear, but I listened and took them to heart. The next time I presented pages for critique, I received a very different response.

I see now the group doubted my ability to write well, based on my initial submission, a reasonable assumption. However, the next time I presented pages, which incorporated their suggestions and advice, the revisions not only impressed them, but convinced them I could do this. Frankly, it convinced me as well. The group treated me differently from then on.

Whenever my turn for submitting pages came up, they mixed praise for the good stuff with very useful suggestions for the problematic parts. Some members had a specialty; one focused on the big picture issues, while another (okay, it was Jackie Houchin) scrutinized each word with forensic precision. The group kept me going with positive and constructive feedback until I finished my first draft. When I presented multiple premises for my follow-up book, their comments helped me find the right path forward in continuing my saga.

I also learned how to give critique. In one of my first meetings, I listened to a short story being read aloud by the writer (okay, it was Jackie Houchin), and all I could contribute was a fashionable woman wouldn’t be wearing a white in winter. With the practice that came with reading or hearing pages from other writers, and picking up clues from their critiques, I began to develop sharper skills for evaluating the good and the not-so-good, not only other’s work, but in my own.

This year I celebrate the twentieth anniversary of my first publishing contract. It would never have happened if not for the support and encouragement of my writers group. Nor would it have happened if I’d disregarded their feedback, or became so insulted by it I’d left the group.

I can take some credit for this, but much should go to the core members. They always knew the boundary line between critique and criticism. Others crossed that line, but thankfully they did not remain in the group for very long because they usually could not accept anything beyond praise for their work. Their loss.

I’ve had the opportunity to pay it forward over the years, in critique groups and through my volunteer work with a local high school creative writing class. Occasionally someone who finds out I’m a published author will ask me to evaluate their writing. The lessons I’ve learned through my groups have helped me do that in a positive, yet helpful way.

Learning the difference between criticism and critique is crucial to the process. Critique must be reassuring, especially when you’re calling out the problems in someone’s writing. Criticism is merely negative. Criticism says something isn’t good, while critique may say that but also explain why. Good critique supports the writer, and encourages them by separating the good from the what-could-be-good-if…. It’s uplifting. It pushed you forward, whereas criticism beats you down.

What if I’m asked to critique a piece that may be beyond redemption? That’s when it helps to have a few key phrases, and a list of recommended reading. I find something, anything to praise or comment favorably on, even if it’s a character’s name. I’ll pick one salvageable problem with the writing and suggest a generic solution. Perhaps there’s too much repetition, the dialog’s clunky, or the genre is unclear. I admit some writers shouldn’t be given false hope, but I needn’t be completely discouraging. I might also remind them there’s nothing wrong with writing for one’s own pleasure, or journaling about one’s life (and keeping it private).

I recently found my pet stories and reread them. Granted, many needed work, but unlike the response I got from my friend, they weren’t awful. Sad that it discouraged me for years, delaying me from doing what I always wanted to do. But I’m writing now, and will continue to do so, having learned the difference between criticism and critique.

On another note, I always love to receive and read your comments, but forgive me if I don’t respond immediately. Today’s post coincides with my 25^th wedding anniversary, so hubby and I will be off celebrating. I promise to get back to you soon.

This story by Miko Johnston was posted by Jackie Houchin

NEW IDEAS, PAST AND PRESENT

by Miko Johnston

We’re barely two months into the new year, but as I contemplate what we’ll write about in the future, and what will inspire us to keep at it, I’ve found some of my answers to those questions in our posts from the previous year.

Hannah wrote about overthinking. How many of us are guilty of getting obsessive about our writing? Characters, plots and background have to be thought out, but we also must keep it all in balance. That has become harder for me to achieve, partly because age has undermined my ability to multitask and partly because my priorities have shifted. I still enjoy writing and am committed to finishing at least two more books, but I’m reminded of Madeline’s piece on Writing Scared, and the idea of switching up the type of writing you do. I’ve done that in the past, so now I’m adding a new avocation – photography.

Years of writing has given me a sense of what works and what doesn’t, and while I still rely on critiques from fellow writers, I often can figure out problems in my manuscript on my own. Not so with my new hobby. I look at a photo and I may like it, but I don’t know why, exactly, nor can I be certain it’s any good. I’ve joined a photography club and have been invited to participate in their biannual exhibit. I’m going to need a lot of critique and advice before I select which pictures I want to use.

Linda’s piece on attending writers conferences reminded me that many more may be held this year as the risk from the recent pandemic fades from our memory, if not from our lives. Will these events be successful, or will the attendance habit, having been interrupted, be broken? Costs, from registration to travel to hotels and meals, will likely be higher than we remember. I can see where some will be very selective about which they’ll attend while others choose not to register for conferences at all.

Gayle’s piece on The Future of the Written Word really resonated with me. I’m often puzzled, even shocked, by how many words have been usurped and had their meanings altered, some with additions, some with subtractions. Regardless, these 2.0 definitions have led to divisions. A lack of clarification, or precision, makes the word’s meaning, well, meaningless. I suspect if any of the worst offenders of this phenomenon were reading this, they would have stopped at usurped (insert my sarcastic smirk here).

And speaking of the written word, Jill contributed a post on a similar, if lighter, topic – the subtle differences between American and British English. With three Brits in our WinR group and many others within our writing circle, it can be a challenge.

Rosemary’s Collecting Memories touched me. While clearing out closets and shelves in anticipation of a thorough spring cleaning, I’ve uncovered a trove of precious mementos – cards, notes and letters from family and friends, some going back to my birth. Programs from bar/bat mitzvas, funerals, and other events. Menus from private supper clubs, conference galas and corporate dinners at restaurants. Each find brought back wonderful memories of the people and places I’ve enjoyed over the years. That included a copy of the dedication that went into the L.A. Library’s copy of Rosemary’s book, “Hollywood Then and Now”, in memory of her beloved husband Rick. Her post reminded me that these keepsakes – all comprised of words – and the memories they invoke, are precious, something Maggie explained so eloquently in her post based on the “a reason, a season, or a lifetime” quote.

Jackie’s interviews with writers as well as all the fabulous guest posts she’d arranged added dimension to our blog, and her piece on naming characters had many solid tips I’ve come to rely on. And I’ll add a special shout-out for all the technical help she’s provided to us, especially a technical “muggle” like me.

There are many more posts from my co-WinRs that have and continue to inspire me. I can only hope I might have had the same effect on them, as well as our readers.

Let Me Entertain You!

by Jackie Houchin

Lots of medical stuff going on with me right now, so I thought I’d simply share a fun aspect of our Alaska cruise last fall. That aspect is called MUSH. No, not yelling at sled-pulling dogs (although we DID do that), but a different kind of Mush.

In Skagway, Alaska, I bought a small toy Husky, a beanie-bag size and shape little guy, with soft gray/white fur, big blue eyes, and the name MUSH printed on the tag. I loved the little guy from the first glimpse and perched him on my pillow in the stateroom when we got back to the ship. Joel, our cabin steward aboard the Oceania Regatta ship, loved Mush too.

When we left for dinner in the evenings the steward would come in to straighten up and turn down our beds. When we returned later, we found the usual chocolate candy on our pillows, AND…..Mush, posed in a series of so cute antics. The first time, he was propped on a pillow with the TV remote, watching a football game on the screen.

Another time he was standing on an open book (that I’d been reading), as if he were reading too.

Once when we came back from an excursion ashore and after we’d had lunch at the buffet, we found him on our small room table with the curtains draw slightly, looking out at sea.

And then, every evening HE started getting chocolate candy too, an additional piece placed between his paws. We were absolutely delighted.

Of course “I” started posing Mush for Joel too when we went out for the day, hiding him where the pitcher of ice water was kept, or behind the desk alarm clock, or sometimes just lying on the bed, his head tucked in and front feet up, waiting for a belly rub.

We had such fun with Mush and our very good and so kind cabin steward. Another sweet memory. And now, Mush resides on my dresser at night, guarding my glasses, and sometimes on my pillow during the daytime. (But he’s on a diet now – no chocolate.)

Maybe I could write a cute kid’s story starring Mush on an ocean cruise. He could meet friends, find a missing object, solve a mystery, or rescue someone in danger. Now that’s an idea!! Mush and I might have to put our heads together and come up with a plan!

SHADOWS OF THE PAST

by Miko Johnston

My first book, A Petal in the Wind, begins a family saga that encompasses a half century. As each subsequent entry in the series carries a subtitle, my fifth and last book, which I’m writing now, will be called Shadows of the Past.

That phrase took on new meaning recently when my husband Allan and I traveled to Europe.

Our trip began in Prague, where much of my series takes place. I spent a day walking in the footsteps of my characters, visiting their homes, businesses and the landmarks mentioned throughout the pages. I’d selected most of the locations on Google Maps, so seeing them for real was, shall we say, enlightening. It took an hour to find U Seminaire, the location of the bachelor pad I’d used for the man who eventually marries my protagonist, Lala. I’d chosen it because it seemed like a quick walk from the Charles Bridge. In actuality it sits underneath the bridge, entangled in a labyrinth of short blocks and alleys. Somehow the building’s image got reversed on Maps – it’s on the opposite side of the street. Ouch. The little greenbelt across from Lala’s mother’s apartment, where ladies sat on benches underneath the shade trees and gossiped, actually sits below street level, though trees do line the sidewalk and there are benches. And the “gentle slope” of the street where Lala’s family lived for twenty years turned out to be a heart-pounding climb on a good day, and treacherous during inclement weather. Sigh. Still, as I stood in front of the building, seeing it for real, I felt thrilled.

In my fourth book, Lala launches her design career by converting a series of buildings into a world-class hotel. Ironically, the palace (the Czech term for a fine home), which I’d chosen for the location is now an actual hotel, and we decided to book it for our visit. It turned out the be the finest hotel I’ve ever stayed in, and although I have no right to take pride in that, I can’t help but feel delighted. On a slow afternoon I cornered the hotel staff and peppered them with questions about the building’s history, particularly during the Second World War. What began as a brief history lesson turned out to be a wild series of stories and gossip, which will inevitably solve some plot issues.

Three days later Allan and I bid ahoj to Prague and boarded a train bound for Poland. After an overnight stop in Katowice, the largest city in the region known as Upper Silesia, we took a cab to the nearby city of Bytom, the hometown of my father and his entire family. Back then Upper Silesia was part of Germany, the city known as Beuthen. As I walked along the streets, I tried to picture what his life must have been like. I gazed at the people who passed, wondering if I’d see any signs of familiarity in their faces.

The picturesque parts of the town – with some remarkable architecture and a delightful town square, partially rebuilt after being bombed in WWII – surprised me, but other areas wore the hard reality of over a half-century of decline. I saw it in the run-down buildings left to rot and the pervasive trash, especially cigarette butts, in the street. I also saw it in the faces and the body language of so many, but most strikingly in the older folks, who’d lived through Nazi occupation, followed by decades of Soviet rule, only to be largely ignored by the European Union. They bore a sense of quiet despair, of resignation to the bleakness in their existence. The only signs of joy were in little children interacting with pigeons in the town square, swarming with them, chasing them or karate-kicking them away. I saw no faces that resembled mine, nor any signs of my past in the city. It had been wiped clean.

Our next stop in Poland was Krakow, a city Allan has always wanted to visit. Rich in history, it has a beautiful castle on a hill overlooking the Vistula River, and the largest town square in Europe. I went for a different reason. On our second day there we boarded a bus to tour the two largest and most infamous Nazi-era concentration camps, Auschwitz and Birkenau.

Entering into the first camp, with its ARBEIT MACHT FREI (“Work sets you free”) sign over the entrance gate, I wondered how I would react, or feel. I’m still not sure, to be honest, other than the eerie familiarity of what I heard and saw – from decades of studying photographs accompanied by written accounts, of documentaries and movies filmed on location, and stories I’d heard from survivors, including my father. For many, the trip was a history lesson. For me, it was akin to visiting the cemetery; I lost an estimated ninety members of my family there.

After a brief break, the tour continued to nearby Birkenau. Unlike Auschwitz, which to me felt small and claustrophobic, Birkenau is huge. You’ve seen it in many movies: a long low building with railroad tracks leading to a central tower, open at the bottom to allow trains to enter with their human cargo, like a gaping maw ready to devour all who arrive. Alongside and beyond the entrance, what seems like miles and miles of barbed wire fencing surrounds a huge open area interspersed with low barracks and guard towers. In the distance I could see different tour groups traversing the grounds, and for one brief moment I pictured them in the striped uniforms and hats of prisoners.

Prior to abandoning the camp in January 1945, days ahead of the advancing Russian forces, the Nazis burned the meticulous records they’d kept of all who were brought to the camps and blew up the gas chambers. Only piles of rubble remain. Many, many piles. They left behind the prisoners too weak to continue; the rest (including my father) went on a forced march from one concentration camp to the next, always trying to stay ahead of the Russians, whom they rightfully feared more than the other Allies. It took several more months until my father was liberated, but at least the Americans freed him. Had he stayed behind in Auschwitz, he would have lived the rest of his life under the thumb of the Soviets. After what I saw in Bytom, I’m grateful he had the strength to wait.

The entire tour took seven hours and, although it allowed for a few bathroom breaks, it did not include a meal. The irony was not lost on me.

We left Poland and continued our travels, with France the next destination. There I stumbled upon traces of history that will influence my writing, and my life, but I’ll save that for a future post.

I can’t say these experiences will enrich the final chapter in my saga, but I can say I truly feel as though I’ve walked in the shadows of the past, both my characters’, and mine.