F resh I nk - Inland Empire California Writers Club

Transcription

Vol. XVIII No. VI
JUNE 2016
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CALIFORNIA WRITERS CLUB
INLAND EMPIRE BRANCH
... Branch News ... Branch News ... Branch News ... Branch News ... Branch News ...
California Writers Club
Inland Empire Branch
Board Members
President — Judy Kohnen
Vice President — Jodi Rizzotto
Secretary — Kelly Lewis
Treasurer — Samuel Nichols
Membership — Jodi Rizzotto
Programs — Judy Kohnen
Publicity — Kelly Lewis
Webmaster — Open (Judy Kohnen)
Editor — Barbara Unsworth
Central Board Rep — Robert L. Covington
Hospitality — Caroline Corser
At Large — Libby Grandy
At Large — Sue Andrews
At Large — Theresa Mirci-Smith
Nominating Chair — Open
Historian — Open
Mentor — Open
Critique Group Administrator — Open
Pre-session — Open
District Representative — Open
Meetings
The fourth Saturday of each month
10:15 am to noon at
Ovitt Family Community Library
in Ontario, CA
Membership
There are two categories of membership
for CWC: Active members have been published. Associate members have written
work to present as samples for an evaluation. If publication is indicated soon, the
writer qualifies. Either status entitles the
member to privileges such as reduced rates
at conferences.
Dues
All membership dues are $45 a year, due
July first. However, Active and Associate
members pay a one-time fee of $20. From
mid-year (January) all new membership
dues are $22.50. The full year begins on July
1. All guests are welcome to the meetings of
the Inland Empire Branch. First time guests
of members are admitted free of charge.
Thereafter, the guest fee is $5 per meeting. If
a visitor decides to join the branch, the guest
fee will be applied to the first year’s dues.
Fresh Ink:
“Stuff on writing
and the stuff writers write”
If You Need to Get in Touch:
Judy Kohnen, President
— [email protected]
Jodi Rizzotto, Vice President
Kelly Lewis, Secretary
Samuel Nichols, Treasurer
—[email protected]
Jodi Rizzotto, Membership
CONTENTS
President’s Message
JK Conibear ………………… 3
The Rumpled Brown Bag
Duncan L. Dieterly …………… 4
Darkness and Despair
Working for the California
Department of Mental Health
The Good Boy
Steve Park …………………… 6
Memorializing
Robert Louis Covington …… 8
Judy Kohnen, Programs
Busing Around
Robert Louis Covington …… 8
Kelly Lewis, Publicity
Using a Place Gift
Mike Foley…………………… 9
Barbara Unsworth, Editor
Robert L. Covington,
Central Board Representative
Opportunities ………………… 10
Announcements ……………… 11
Caroline Corser, Hospitality
Libby Grandy, At Large
Sue Andrews, At Large
Theresa Mirci-Smith, Social Media
The Inland Empire California Writers Club
publishes Fresh Ink monthly.
Send submissions to: Barbara Unsworth, Editor
[email protected]
Submissions are open to all CWC members.
Submit: essay, short story, poetry, how-to.
The Editor has the final word on
content, layout, and acceptance of submissions.
Deadline for all submissions is open.
The Board meets the fourth Saturday of each month
from 8:30 to 10:00 am.
Molly’s Souper
388 N. 1st Avenue, Upland
All members are welcome.
2
cover
photo

The cover image, entitled
Pink’n’Green
is by member
Barbara Unsworth.
Fresh Ink
JUNE 2016
The Age of Writing
by JK Conibear
A
t eighty-five years of age, Harry Cauley admitted that aging is bothersome, because being too old to work is a
myth espoused by Hollywood, Broadway, and the television and publication industries. The belief is that the young
introduce new concepts, so careers are over by the age of 40 (even younger if you are female). In reality, the notion of
aging has nothing to do with innovation, and everything to do with investment. Publishers would rather invest in an
established best-selling author with a string of good books than promote extraordinary books from an assortment of
emerging authors. Likewise with movies and TV series.
Fortunately, there is a difference between belief and reality. After acting and writing Broadway plays, Cauley arrived
in Hollywood at the energetic age of forty and launched a career writing for TV. His first book was published at the age
of sixty-five. The most discouraging, cruelest people were the publishers, but overall Cauley credited his success to a
pushy attitude, good health and some luck, all of which helped make the right connections.
Cauley’s regal presence and thick, white hair reminded me of Donald Sutherland as President Snow in the Hunger
Games. He did not need a microphone to project his voice during his presentation. Here is a sampling of Cauley’s
advice:
—If you have to learn how to get published, learn it. Cauley does not have recent experience publishing books, but he
was adamant that writers learn how to do it today; age and inexperience are not a disqualifications.
—If you cannot not write, you are a writer. When it comes to writing, no one chooses to be a writer; rather, writing
chooses you. However, if your words come too easily, remember your audience. For example, if a letter to a friend
turns into a ramble about annoying animals feasting on your vegetable garden, re-write the letter to focus on the message you want to relay and events that interest your friend.
—If someone agrees to read your manuscript, make it as legible as possible by using
wide margins with double-spaced lines. Try thirteen words per line. No one wants to
read your stuff, so make it easy for them.
—If the adage “only write what you know” were true, there would be no Lord of the
Rings. A better approach is to “write what you imagine,” and “write what you can think
about.” Don’t limit yourself.
—If your work is not accepted for publication, it is not a reflection on the quality of
your work. Remember everyone is subjective. Cauley still owns a collection of rejected
or unpublished manuscripts.
Writing a book is a lonely job, more so than writing for TV or theater, and being around
people energizes Cauley, so he learned to fill afternoons with activities to compensate
for the fact that he is a man without a regular job. He still writes from 6:00-11:00 every
morning.
He quoted Dorothy Parker. “I hate writing. I love having written.” Many writers can relate to that!
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Fresh Ink
JUNE 2016
The Rumpled
Brown Bag
by Duncan L. Dieterly
I
t was one of those frosty nights in October. It was actually too
cold to be prowling the streets but a modest shadow emerged
from a black doorway of the building across from the small
tattered community park. The park had been there for over fifty years suffering the constant abuse of its careless users. The
shadow was of an older man who limped slightly across the
narrow desolate street. He almost went past the park entrance
but stopped, tarried and turned into it ... sliding past the chipped
side post into the ancient fading area.
Looking about in the dismal gray gloom he saw only vague
shapes of stumpy bushes and slender broken trees. It had been
a long time since he had visited this park. It was the park near
his old home. His cap had a faded logo—The Bertha Buzzards
blazoned across it in tattered gold. They had been the favorite
team of the old neighborhood; well over thirty years ago but
after drug scandals, shootings, briberies, booze and hookers the
team had collapsed into oblivion.
No one even remembered its brief greatness anymore. The old
neighborhood was also gone, now only a ghastly ghost of the
past. He just wore the cap to keep his head warm. He had rescued it out of the Goodwill bin behind the fire station well over
fifteen years ago. He really didn’t give a damn about the game
or the team anymore but it was a damn warm hat. It kept his
head warm.
Glancing around frequently he slowly committed himself …
moving around the now empty large fountain that no longer
spewed water high to the delight of small children. He worked
his way over toward the opposite side. The park, basically now
just a dirt pen of weeds, junk and stubby brush, was solemnly
empty. It was well after midnight.
The man wore a frayed baseball cap and rather dull-looking
denim work clothes with a heavy dark jacket. Clutching a crumbled brown paper bag under his arm, he gripped it tightly with
his left hand around its throat. Confused, he was uncertain of
what he had in mind. Finally arriving at a broken bench he sat
down on the edge with bitter relief. The first stage of his final
journey was completed.
His breath blew in light wisps as he relaxed, looking for a sign.
He was certain it would come. Then he would know what to do.
He intended to do the correct thing, the right thing, but it was
hard for him to know what that was anymore. He was living a
slow innocuous death and not caring for it much. The fact that
the old faggot, Granmoco, fired him from his rotten bowling
lane job two days ago didn’t help him much. I didn’t deserve
to be fired. Granmoco did it out of spite. I’m sure. Seven years
of service gone in an acrimonious second. All about some spilt
beer on the already filthy floor!
Adjusting the wrinkled brown paper bag held under his left arm
he eased it away placing it next to him on the bench. He was
unsure now. He had been sure when he left his tiny basement
flat … but not now. It seemed so anticlimactic, so silly. For all
his sixty-five years he had been used to more respect and he
also had some grasp of what was happening in the vast world.
No longer. Now he was unimportant—not certain of anything.
He stroked the scruffy bag, gripping the long hard neck. Moving his head toward the bag he squeezed it tight to insure it
wouldn’t escape.
Closing his eyes tight, he tried desperately to see his wife and
family. They had all moved on years ago, so he no longer could
even visualize them clearly … just vague blurred images. It
had been over twelve years since he had seen the last of them.
Maybe he should try and contact them to see how they were.
No, they would be busy with their own hectic problems. They
had deserted him long ago. He knew exactly what he should
(continued on page 5)
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Fresh Ink
JUNE 2016
(continued from page 4)
do. He just didn’t really want to do it. Why the hell couldn’t he
have a nice clean heart attack like his friend Draden? Just drop
over dead at the bar with good bourbon in his hand and be done
with it all? Well, this just was not going to happen. The more he
hoped for it, the older he got.
… checking the garbage cans. Youse a homeless worthless fuck
… ain’t yea, ol man? Where’s your cart ya ol turd? What else
you got?”
“Nothing for you, damn it! Go away, Get the fuck gone! Leave
me alone, damit you.”
Maybe I am being too hard on myself. Maybe I should just go
on home. Crawl into bed, pull all my tattered blankets over my
head and sleep till morning. Then I could think about it some
more. Yes, that seemed like the best idea. Letting loose of the
dirty brown bag, he had just about decided to get up off the cold
bench when he sensed someone skulking behind him. Listening
carefully he was sure someone was sneaking up behind him. He
gripped the crumpled brown bag, pulling it into his lap.
The seated man was offended. All his anger surged into hatred
of this strange intruder waving a knife in his face.
“Who the hell ya think you is? I have the right to be here. I have
the right to sit here. God dam it to hell! Why can’t ya jus leave
me be?”
Waving the knife blade closer to his face the stranger edged
forward reaching out toward the brown paper bag with his other
hand.
An angry voice behind him snarled, “What’s up old man? You
got a booze bottle stashed in that bag of yurin? Sure in the hell
you do. You fuzzy ole fart. Jus what’s I need on nippy night
likes tonight. Umm. Umm.”
The blaze of retribution flashed in the old man eyes. He jerked
the bag toward himself with one hand. His other hand drove
into it. Grasping the heavy revolver it concealed he swung the
gun and bag upward pointing it at the stranger who relaxed,
mistakenly thinking he meant to give it up.
The tall husky figure eased around the side of him and stood
with his back to the light. His eyes glared down on the small
man.
The single shot was surprisingly loud in the silent night. Both
men were stunned. The shock on the stranger’s startled face
was a beautiful thing to see. The knife fell, clattered to the cement. It lay there in the shadow, inert. Wisps of gun smoke
danced around the bag.
The stranger was in front of him now. The seated man could
barely make out his worn face, his balding head and blazing
black eyes in his deeply shadowed face.
He pleaded, “No, no booze. Go. Go on away from here. Jus
leave me in peace … for shit-sake.”
Staggering backward a step, the stranger dropped hard. He
gasped incoherently several times, stopped wiggling and then
bled out his pitiful life at the old man’s feet. Shakenly the old
man, driven by his rage and hatred, rose up to tower above the
dying invader.
“Oh now old man … don’t youse be that away. Let’s jus have
a tiny drop of the booze. I’m hurting and it will heal me up
some. Jus a taste, mind you.” He brought his hand out of his
coat pocket producing a short ugly knife. It glinted in the light.
He waved it slowly in front of the old man’s face.
“I hope you enjoyed your shot,” he whispered into the night.
“I just wants a sip and that’s it.” He laughed lightly knowing
damn well he was going to rob this old buzzard, pick him clean.
Maybe even kill him … if he gave him much trouble tonight.
Fascinated, he barely noticed the spreading black pool of blood.
I guess I am not the one dying tonight. Resignation took hold. I
guess that was my sign. That bastard SOB just had to hustle me.
I guess I’m still able to defend myself from gutter trash.
The seated man felt an anger boiling inside. Anger at this fucking intruder, anger at his fading world, anger at himself. He
snapped out, “No. No God dam booze. Go to a damn bar. Christ
there’s one on every fucking corner in this neighborhood.”
Grasping the crumpled brown bag and its potent contents tightly
under his arm, he moved quickly now. Escaping into the night,
while intently listening for the approaching sirens. Pulling his
hat down low, tucking his free hand in his pocket, feeling alive
again, he sought life’s warmth. As the slightly limping shadow
hurried home he thought, Tomorrow I better look for a new job.
“Well, youse buyin old man?” The man mocked. “Naw your
anot buying. Yo nots a wealthy man. That’s for sure. You jus an
old beggar man. I seen youse in the neighborhood last weekend
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Fresh Ink
JUNE 2016
Darkness and Despair
Working for the California Department of Mental Health
The Good Boy
by Steve Park
In over a quarter of a century working for the California Department of Mental Health, I’ve worked with every designation
of Developmentally Disabled patients. I’ve also worked with LPS--or Mentally Ill patients, and Penal Code patients--or the
Criminally Insane.
This happened with Medium Functioning Developmentally Disabled patients.
I’d just come to work. On entering the office filled with employees, the quiet was striking. The first person I saw was Mr.
Marks, our Unit Supervisor. My shift supervisor, Joe, usually
greeted me with a smile. Not today. I was worried. I hoped that
no one had gotten hurt.
Vivian glanced down, took a breath, and said, “I’m sorry, Robert. You know I’m past retirement age.” She brushed back her
short wavy hair and added, “I don’t know why I keep hanging
around this place, but if you want me to go…”
“No, no, I don’t want that,” Mr. Marks said. “Just, please, don’t
go storming up the hill like an angry whirlwind—dressing
down their teachers.”
Mr. Marks glanced around the office and said, “It’s time for
shift change, people.” He shuffled some papers. “I had a visit
from one of the administrators up on mahogany row today, and
it wasn’t a pleasant one.”
“All right, all right,” Vivian said. “I’ll stay away from Mr. Ted.
But could you please let them know over at the school what a
careless word could mean to a young boy like Jimmy?”
That got everyone’s attention. A reprimand from one of the
upper level superintendents could end Mr. Marks career, if it
ended up in his personnel file.
Mr. Marks looked closely at Vivian. “From what I’ve heard,
Ted has been told.” He looked around the room. “I think he’s
heard from just about everybody. I’m hoping he’s learned his
lesson.”
“It seems someone went up to the school and…”
“I know what this is all about,” Vivian interrupted abruptly. “It
was me.”
Shift change went smoothly from there on. Mr. Marks went
through the roll call board, patient by patient. The only patient
with a problem was Rory. Rory had been kept at home until
his aged mother couldn’t take care of him anymore. He wasn’t
a violent patient, but he would sometimes curse the older employees.
Mr. Marks tilted his head down and looked over his glasses at
Vivian. “Yeah, and you read one of the teachers the riot act.”
Vivian was a good-looking woman who had aged well. Even
in her middle sixties, she was nice looking. Eyes glittering like
hard diamonds, she snorted in derision. “After I picked at him,
I got Jimmy to talk. It was Ted who told him that he was retarded.” She looked defiant. “That dumb ass could have been a
little more…considerate.”
“Oh, by the way, Joe,” Mr. Marks said. “we’re getting a new
patient this afternoon from Ward B. I hear he’s a pistol, so be
careful.”
Though he wasn’t tall, Joe was a big man. Face impassive, he
nodded once and said, “What have you heard about him?”
Mr. Marks sighed deeply. “I have a note from Ted. He said that
he was following protocol and presenting reality…”
Mr. Marks said, “Autistic, the family’s youngest child, raised
at home.”
“Reality my ass!” Vivian snapped. “Ted didn’t have to say that.
If he isn’t careful he just might say the wrong thing some day
and end up hurt.”
Joe nodded, “By a loving family.”
Mr. Marks said, “He grumbled to his supervisor, who bypassed
our program office and complained to the administration building. This could cost me.”
Mr. Marks continued, “Yeah, by his parents. He started getting
a little wild at home when things didn’t go his way. After several visits by the police, and a few trips to Ward B, they think he
(continued on page 7)
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Fresh Ink
JUNE 2016
(continued from page 6)
might be better off here. Let’s hope his first stay with us works
out for them.”
we’ll have to send him home.”
Later, I accompanied Vivian into one of our dorms. It was linen
day, and we were making beds. I saw that Vivian was angry. I
was grateful that she kept it to herself. We’d worked our way
through half of the beds when Rory came in to plop down on
his newly made bed.
So began Michael’s struggle to control his anger. Time after
time, he’d ask to go home to “be, be with daddy.” When told
no, he’d struggle to be a good boy and hold back his anger.
When we’d have dinner, he’d ask if we were going to have pie
for dessert. When he was told not tonight, he’d get angry again
and stumble away, trying to be a good boy. Then he started a
new tactic.
A light came on in Michael’s eyes and he took a pose, hands
hanging down in front of him like a puppy sitting up on his
haunches. “I’m a good boy.”
“Yeah,” Joe added. “And they can visit him any time they
want.” With that, shift change ended.
“Vivian, you’re a bitch,” Rory said. Head bobbing in a strange
way, he stared intently at her. Vivian was experienced and
didn’t let patients get to her.
When denied what he wanted, Michael would run into the bathroom and scream. After staff rushed to see if he was hurt, Michael would smile politely and say no. Days turned into weeks,
then months. Michael did his best to control his anger. Screaming in the bathroom became more commonplace, which upset
the other patients. We had to take him to the unlocked timeout
room, where we watched him through a small window in the
door.
“Oh my God,” Vivian said. She looked at Rory with an injured
look on her face.
Rory smiled a wicked, satisfied grin. “I hate you, Vivian.”
“Oh, God no,” Vivian said. Mollified, Rory wouldn’t take it to
the next level. We finished the rest of the beds without incident.
Rory sat on his bed, smiling a satisfied smile.
I tried another tactic when Michael’s anger got beyond his control. “I want to teach you a new thing that might help you, Michael. Say what I say, okay?”
Later, Joe found Vivian and me in the clothing room. Even
though Bobby Joe would destroy the clothing room later, we
still folded and sorted everything. Joe asked me to help him
admit the new patient.
Eyes glowering in anger, breathing heavily with pent up emotion, Michael breathed out, “Okay.”
We were met at the double doors to the unit by administration
staff. They were big men, and I could see why. The new patient
was stout, and muscled. He glowered back and forth between
the administration staff, Joe, and me.
“Can’t always…”
“Can, can’t always…”
“Have what…”
The administration employees handed Joe a stack of paperwork, including the patient’s chart, and left us.
“Have what…”
Joe looked at the chart, then over at the patient. “Your name is
Michael, huh?”
“I want.” When I said those last two words, Michael screamed
and dashed away. He ran the length of the hallway, almost a
hundred yards, then turned around and sprinted back. With
Ricky Lou in the hallway, I was worried that he might run him
over. But Michael went around him like a linebacker. Joe came
out to stand beside me.
“Ye, yes,” the patient said. He had a peculiar way of nodding
his head when he a hard time getting a word out.
“Well, come with us to take a shower.”
“But I al,”—nod—“already took a shower.” They gave new patients a shower at admissions.
“Man, he’s fast!” Joe said.
“Agile too,” I added
“We have to check you to make sure no one beat you up.”
After several laps, he began to slow down and we stepped in
his way and stop him. I said, “I thought you were a good boy!”
“No one bea,”—nod—“beat me up.” Michael said with a smile.
Joe stepped close to Michael. “We have to check, so come
along. You don’t have to take a shower. We’ll give you a change
of clothes.”
Chest heaving with exertion and anger, Michael said, “Shut up
or I’ll hit you with fist, you bitch!”
Displaying shock on my face, I spun to Joe and exclaimed, “Oh
my God. Did you hear that Joe? He called me a bitch! A bitch!”
Joe nodded like a good straight man. Michael glowered at me
with satisfaction.
“O,”—nod—“Okay.”
While changing clothes, I looked over at Joe and said, “He
doesn’t have a mark, scar, or tattoo.” Joe jotted down a note. I
continued, “There must be some sort of mistake, Joe. Our unit
is for bad boys. Look how good Michael is. If he’s a good boy,
From then on, whenever he got angry, Michael would run.
When he was really mad, he’d use the “B” word.
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Fresh Ink
JUNE 2016
Busing Around
A yearly turnaround, glees remembered
About a vivid, autumnal day in November
A bus load of simple folk seeking pure fun
In the music rich year, a fine time in 1971
Al Green, Bee Gees, Jackson 5, Osmonds
Temptations, Bells, Cher, George Harrison
From Virginia, Maryland, Washington DC
To town of brotherly love, so-called Philly
The first stop, Philly’s Veterans Stadium
Newly built for baseball, football bedlam
Thus seeing Redskins and Eagles clashing
Savoring a Skins’ victory, a Philly scalping
Memorializing
Then homebound midst the turnaround
A stop in Cherry Hill, a New Jersey town
Nightfall amusement at the Latin Casino
Delights of the Sammy Davis Junior show
Memories, memories, mainly great things
Affording my aging persona fresh upswing
A flawless tide of Sammy voicing, dancing
Chic show girls singing, swinging, prancing
Besides, Sammy presented an invitee elite
The Boxing king, an added audience treat
Mom, Dad, relatives, companions, in-laws
Cheery times, sad causes giving me pause
Plenteous acclaim reverberated from all
Everybody standing, rendering applause
Aware of his feats and iconoclastic boasts
I and another went to meet him up close
My time in the military, just a learning lad
Those multiracial buddies, the fun we had
The nitty-gritties forming who I am today
Obliged, Memorial Day, to praise, to pray
He imparted warmth, charisma to behold
Friendliness and humorousness free fold
“Seen Joe Frazier anywhere,” he quipped
He, great Muhammad Ali, the Louisville lip
For this grand country, freedom to bolster
Goodwill to others, ever inspired to foster
— Robert Louis Covington
Not much of a barbecuing, backyard man
But firm citizen, honoring the beforehand
Robert Louis Covington
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JUNE 2016
USING
A
PLACE GIFT
©2016 By Mike Foley
As writers, it’s important to recognize the gifts that come along, gifts
the details in some way. Then use that place in your work.
1. You can put characters in that same place, if it fits your story. Or
it can be a similar place, with similar details. For example, the hotel I
mentioned above could be a temple garden or a nightclub with soothing music.
2. Use your inner reactions to the place and give those to your characters. Allow them to react the way you did, and you’ll bring a strong
sense of realism to the story scene.
The main thing to remember? When such gifts come to you, don’t
deny them. Use them in your work. Keep your creativity operating at
a high level, even when you’re away from your keyboard. Accepting
the “place gifts” makes the writing fun and your story even stronger.
Best of luck with all your writing.
Give your writing the professional edge before submitting it to agents
and publishers or self-publishing your work. Mike Foley has helped
hundreds of writers improve their work with focused critiques and
edits of novels, nonfiction books, feature articles, short stories, and
screenplays. Contact Mike for a quote:
[email protected]
You may also find information on Mike’s services by visiting his website
http://www.writers-review.com/
Mike Foley is former editor of Dream Merchant Magazine and author
of more than 750 published stories and articles. He has also taught fiction and nonfiction writing in the extension program at UC-Riverside. Since 1986, he has operated the Writer’s Review critique service, helping hundreds of aspiring writers improve their fiction and nonfiction
projects.
*** The Writer’s Edge book is now available in both paperback and
Kindle formats from Amazon.com Click here: goo.gl/Jvt4IN
that can help our writing. To begin, let’s look at a couple of examples
from my own life.
Back in the 1990s, my wife and I traveled to Mexico, to an out-of-theway hotel situated on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Once we settled
in, we sat outside the room with a glass of wine and I was suddenly
overcome with the beauty of the place—the jagged beauty of the cliffs,
the way the sun danced and sparkled across the metal roofs of the
individual cabins, the strong salty air, the odor of meat and seafood
barbecuing in a nearby pit, and the ever-present sound of the ocean
massaging the heart of the place. I found myself incredibly relaxed,
with a sense that I was somehow a part of it all, inseparable from everything seen and felt. And in that moment, I knew that I would write
about this place.
In contrast, there was another place in my past, a postal factory where
I worked while I put myself through college back in the ‘70s. The first
time I walked in, I was overcome just as strongly, but in a different
way. The building was oppressive, almost an attack on the senses—
the decibel level was piercing, forcing you to speak louder and listen
harder; people rushed here and there, moving mail, trying to meet
deadlines; the air was heavy with the odor of dust and ink and sweat.
I found myself instantly on edge, the energy pushing me constantly,
even if there really wasn’t anywhere to be. Over the next seven years,
I lived a big part of my life there, and I knew I would write about that
place.
When you enter a place and feel overwhelmed by it, with a sudden
desire to write about it, you’ve been given a gift. I call these “place
gifts,” strong settings that crop up in your life spontaneously, saying,
“Here I am. Write about me.” I wound up using the above examples in
stories I wrote later on, giving my own experience and inner reactions
to a character in those stories. And in both cases, the result was better
than something I could have created for the scene.
So think about this and be aware of it as your life unfolds. A place
gift is something you instantly notice in your mind and body. When
this happens to you (and you feel it strongly), stop and notice as much
detail as you can. Then commit it to memory—write it down or record
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JUNE 2016
Opportunities!
CWC Critique Workshop
1000
Anthology of Prompts
South Bay Branch regularly adds prompts to their website at
http://southbaywriters.com/wordpress/writing-prompts/
We are collecting submissions with the hope of publishing an
anthology if enough material is submitted to each prompt. All
members of CWC in good standing are welcome to participate.
Please send all submissions and inquiries to
[email protected].
Openings in Riverside!
This group meets
(north of the UCR campus) the
first Tuesday of every month at 7 pm.
Call Assunta Thompson at
909-238-5100
to find out how many copies of your
work you should bring
(and for other info).
Advertising in The Bulletin
We’ve made advertising available in the Bulletin. All ads
submitted must be self-edited, print-ready, and will be
published as received.
Deadline for the Summer issue is Friday July 29, 2016.
Deadline for the Winter issue is Friday October 28, 2016.
The Bulletin reserves the right to decline material deemed
inappropriate at the discretion of the Editor-in-Chief.
All ads must be emailed as a jpg file to:
[email protected]
See further details on our website
calwriters.org
10
Fresh Ink
JUNE 2016
.
.
.
s
t
n
e
cem
n
u
o
n
n
a
...
Do Your Dues Duty!
July 1 marks the beginn
ing of a new
membership year.
Come
to the
Board
Meetin
Our ne
g!
xt boar
d
Dues are $45.
Do pay in June.
Do not be left out!
meetin
8:30 a.m g will be at
ay Jun .
e 25, 2
016
at
Molly’
s
So
388 N.
1st Ave uper
nue, U
pland
Saturd
Next Meeting
of CWC Inland Empire
Our next meeting will be at
10:10 a.m.
Saturday June 25, 2016
at the
Ovitt Family Community Library
215 East “C” Street Ontario, CA
11