“And there’s scientific work that backs up the healing benefits of writing” —Ericka McIntyre, “The Veterans Writing Project,” Writer’s Digest, Jan/Feb 2020
The Veterans Writing Project provides free creative writing workshops for veterans, service members, and their family members.
@amwriting @justwrite #veteranswritingproject
What do you collect?
Write about your collections.
Or write about A Collection.
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If you are thinking of entering writing contests, it’s important to research to determine if a contest is legitimate and reputable.
But, how to find reputable contests?
Go to trusted sources.
Research websites, blogs, and social media by people you know and trust.
Anne R. Allen, a trusted source, blogs about writing:
“Writing Contests are Important: How To Tell the Good Ones from the Scams”
“Beware Bogus Writing Contests! Look for These 8 Red Flags.”
C. Hope Clark’s Funds for Writers newsletter is a great source for announcements of vetted contests, and a handbook of writing contests.
Writer Beware, the publishing industry watchdog group.
If entering contests is in your writing budget, here’s something to consider:
B. Lynn Goodwin, founder of Writer Advice: posted:
“Too often writers submit to agents and editors without having any credentials, but winning a writing competition—especially a well-known one—gives you immediate credibility and something to add to your writing resume.” —Brian Klems, writer, speaker, freelance editor, husband, softball player, perennial fantasy sports underachiever, Huffington Post contributor
Reputable Resources for contests:
The Redwood Branch of The California Writers Club hosts several contests a year.
The current contest, the 2022 Poetry Anthology deadline is soon . . .
November 15, 2021 at 9 pm (PST)
Reedsy, online author services in the self-publishing industry, posts contest information.
Post your writing contest experience on my Writers Forum Facebook Page, under this post.
#amwriting #justwrite #writingcontests
Writing Prompts:
What can you release?
What are you holding onto?
What can you let go of?
If you need inspiration to write on these prompts, or need help with how to write about something difficult, please take a look at:
Entering a cave . . . Prompt #502.
How to write without adding trauma
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Write about a time you felt out of place.
A place where you didn’t belong, but there you were.
What did you do? What did you feel?
Have you found Your Place?
Have you found Your Spot?
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Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.
Memory of a ‘giorno dei morti’ in Italy
by Simona Carini
What I remember most about that day is the cold wind. It was blowing strongly, and yet it could not push away the heavy low clouds and wipe the sky clear, so it was dark in the early afternoon. The cypresses lining the gravel path from the cemetery’s heavy iron gate to the chapel swayed as if wailing unconsolably. A group of people had walked the narrow road from the village to the cemetery in a procession led by the priest, Don Gabriele, imposing in his black cassock, which swirled around his legs at the mercy of the biting wind.
A child then, I was terrified not of the cemetery, which I had been visiting regularly with my father since an early age, but of the elements: the wind could topple trees or tombstones, make pots and vases tumble from columbaria, and if it stopped, the low clouds would weep torrents of rain on us. I had accompanied my aunt Lucia to the ceremony. She was rapt in devoted prayer, while I observed the other villagers and wondered why nobody looked concerned.
The prayer came to the closing “Amen” and all we could hear was the wind. I thought the shared part was over and I could walk with my aunt to our family’s vault and the stories it held and told, stories I never got tired of hearing. But in a gloomy, bass voice, Don Gabriele started singing over the wind:
“Dies irae, dies illa …”
I froze.
“He’s conjuring up ghosts,” I thought.
I wanted to run away but could not move. I knew we were honoring the dead and it would have been disrespectful to leave the ceremony, but why did it have to be so scary?
Never again did I go with Aunt Lucia to the cemetery on November 2nd and in my mind on the Day of the Dead the sky is always blotted out by a mass of pewter clouds, the wind blows hard, and God is angry.
Born in Perugia, Italy, Simona Carini writes poetry and nonfiction and has been published in various venues, in print and online, including Intima – A Journal of Narrative Medicine, Italian Americana, Sheila-Na-Gig online, Star 82 Review, the Journal of Humanistic Mathematics, the American Journal of Nursing. She lives in Northern California with her husband and works as a data scientist at an academic research institution.
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.
Dem Dry Bones
By William Frank Hulse III
In my hometown, the old hospital is where I was born. The same holds true for almost all of my 1947 vintage classmates. The old hospital was built in 1923 and razed in ’65 when the new hospital was completed. The memories I have of the old hospital and the memories I have of the old high school are sufficiently intertwined that I can hardly separate them. Both places were mighty scary after dark – mighty scary. Both buildings had basements with very little light from outside, so they were scary with shadows and dark corners, if the lights were out – even if it was high noon. There were classrooms in the high school basement – physics, biology, chemistry and home economics and student restrooms. The hospital basement was almost exclusively storage, as I recall. My memory of the hospital centers around three trips there for stitches. I wasn’t accident prone but I was adventurous and didn’t always look before I leaped!
When we were 13 years, there were three of us who were far past adventurous. We were bold, audacious and mischievous in the extreme. We didn’t break the law but we sure bent it into a pretzel. We were thrill seekers. There was no leader of the pack. One day Larry would have a crazy idea, the next Robert would get an unwise notion – and on the third yours truly would have a flight of fancy and no parachute whatsoever. The only reason we didn’t get in trouble was due to the fact that we were nighthawks, typically on a Friday night.
I’ve probably failed to mention the fact that my Dad’s dad, my grandfather for whom I’m named, was the high school janitor and a bus driver. Granddad knew more about me than he let on because I’d ridden on the school bus he drove for a year. I behaved – to be sure. Granddad didn’t brook any nonsense even from his favorite grandson. That would be me. I inherited Granddad’s gleam in my eye and a propensity to laugh from dawn to dusk and then some. Sometimes, I would help Grandad clean the school. I wasn’t looking for a job – I just enjoyed being around him. When he got back from his bus route, he’d go back into the high school and give it a once over before the next day’s activities.
Being in the high school after ‘business hours,’ I figured out two or three different ways to do so – even when Granddad wasn’t around – especially when he wasn’t around. I’d been known to smoke in the boy’s room but hadn’t ever been caught. I figured I was bulletproof so I told my nighthawk pals we should invade the high school one night. We didn’t have vandalism in mind – we were just intrigued by being someplace we weren’t supposed to be. One Friday night, a senior with a large dose of ornery took a cow up on the top floor. He left hay and water but that cow roamed the halls for the whole weekend and dropped manure deposits about every 10 feet. School opening was delayed that following Monday while Granddad and I cleaned up after ol’ Daisy. Nobody thought it was funny – everybody thought it was hilarious. Most of the teachers and Granddad pretended to be upset but the truth is it was a heckuva prank.
My memory is a little fuzzy here but I think the three of us brainstormed a prank to top the cow in the high school. It might’ve been my idea but Robert and Larry have graduated from this life and are probably smoking in the boy’s room in heaven. Bless ‘em. But back in 1960 we were full of enthusiasm for one particular prank. We wanted to ‘liberate’ the skeleton in the biology lab. We named him Mr. Bone-jangles. At first, all we wanted to do was bring him out for a weekend – a furlough of a sort. But try as we might, we couldn’t figure out a way to get old’ Davey Bones back into the high school biology lab. We knew Mrs. Ahrend would be calling the FBI and Scotland Yard to help recover her lab partner. Getting caught by the authorities – that would be bad. And for me, having Granddad and Dad find out I was involved would be a fate worse than death. So, just for the record and in case they’re watching down from one of Heaven’s fishing ponds, “It wasn’t me.” I’m just reporting the facts as best I know them. Sorry, Larry and Robert, but you’re on your own.
Davey Bones somehow ended up in my basement. To this day, I’m still baffled how it happened. I was certain Mom and Dad wouldn’t find ol’ Bone-jangles because he was back in the darkest corner of the basement where my aunt and uncle’s non-essentials were stored. They had moved to Oregon and had planned to retrieve the goods when they came back to visit. I think their junk may still be back in that musty corner. They’ve been gone for 20 years now but they might need that stuff – you just never know.
On Sunday afternoon we put an old shirt and trousers on Davey and found two perfect blue marbles for his eyes. About 11:00 that night we all snuck out and retrieved our pal and took him up to the hospital and ceremoniously left him on the front steps. We had made a placard and put it on his lap. It said, Rest in Pieces. The skeleton was back in the biology lab later that week. Three years later, Mrs. Ahrend was our biology teacher. She looked right at us but warned the entire class to expect fire and brimstone if Mr. Bone-jangles ever went AWOL again.
The old days were nothing short of amazing. I was careful not to tell my son about our shenanigans. He didn’t have the sense God gave a goose and that was like father like son.
William Frank Hulse III is a native Oklahoman, born and raised in the Indian Cowboy Oilman community of Pawhuska. He began his college career at Central State College in Edmond but enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1968. While serving in the military Frank completed his undergraduate degree with the University of Maryland. Upon his return to civilian life in 1975, Frank was employed by Phillips Petroleum Company for almost 30 years. Since retiring he plays guitar and writes.
Note From Marlene: You are welcome to comment on this story on my Writers Forum Facebook Page.
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Today’s writing prompt:
I always wanted . . .
Fill in the blanks. Write freely with no worries about the outcome. Just Write!
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Guest Blogger Matthew Félix shares his rebound from doubt.
“Doubt is the Devil! Show doubt, and he’ll be back!”
I woke up with the quote resounding in my mind. It was as though an old woman were standing over me waving her finger, scolding me to make sure I got the point.
A couple of weeks earlier, I had received the comments on my novel from my editor. Like a tsunami coming out of nowhere (or, in this case, raging up the coast from Santa Barbara), twelve pages of feedback wiped out half the world I’d spent so many years building.
I expected it. I wanted it. Nevertheless, in the days and weeks that followed I was overcome by wave after wave of self-doubt, at times nearly drowning in it.
Was I up for the challenge? Did I have the energy to make the changes? And, by the way, what changes? My editor pointed out the problems, she didn’t provide the solutions. It was my book. Addressing the issues was my job. Could I figure it out? Did I still even want to try?
Some days, as I considered what needed to be done and how to do it, the path forward seemed to open effortlessly before me. I felt good. I felt motivated and inspired. On others, I slammed up against a wall, struggling in vain to address confounding roadblocks. I stared listlessly at the computer, accomplishing nothing, my eyes bloodshot, a trickle of saliva dangling from my mouth, the floor under my chair like at a barber shop, covered with hair I’d pulled out in frustration.
Then I woke up to the quote.
I thought about how much support I’d received, especially recently. Things had fallen into place in ways I never could have imagined, ways that exceeded my expectations. I had been presented with perfect places to write over the coming months. I suddenly didn’t have to worry about major expenses I had been anticipating. Countless words, gestures, and signs had encouraged me to keep going.
Self-doubt suddenly seemed self-indulgent.
After all, what purpose did it serve? What purpose does it ever serve? Other than giving us excuses to let ourselves off the hook, if we choose to buy into it? Other than granting us license to avoid the challenges and obstacles from which we have the most to learn?
“Show doubt, and he’ll be back!”
Not only was doubt subversive, it was self-perpetuating. The more I indulged it, the more it got under my skin, like the poison-oak infection I scratched until it spread to my eye and sealed it shut. Giving doubt my attention only made it stronger, blinding me to reality.
It was time to open my eyes.
It was time to show my gratitude for all the support, guidance, and inspiration that continued to come my way. It was time to renounce doubt and embrace faith, in myself, in my novel, in something greater that had gotten me this far and would get me through to the end.
The dream was a wake-up call.
Enough self-indulgent, counterproductive doubt.
Time to send the Devil packing.
Note From Marlene: I have had the joy of experiencing Matthew and his illuminating talks about book marketing. I learn something new every time. He is a gem in the treasure chest of book marketing.
Matthew Félix is an author, editor, publisher, podcaster, speaker, blogger, and the Program Director and Host of the San Francisco Writers Conference Podcast.
He publishes and markets books for other authors.
Publishers Weekly’s BookLife Prize called Matthew’s debut novel, A Voice Beyond Reason, a “highly crafted gem.”
Matthew’s With Open Arms won four Solas Awards and has topped Amazon’s Africa and Morocco categories.
Matthew was awarded the Solas Grand Prize for Story of the Year for his “The Citroën & the Pomegranate.”
Matthew’s latest book, Porcelain Travels, won Gold for Humor in the 2019 Readers’ Favorite Awards and was a Foreword INDIES Book of the Year Award finalist. Its stories were awarded Gold, Silver, and Bronze Solas Awards, as well as the First and Third Prizes in Humor in the 2020 Soul-Making Keats Literary Competition.
Adventure, humor, and spirituality infuse Matthew’s work, which often draws on his time living in Spain, France, and Turkey, as well as travels in more than fifty countries.
#amwriting #justwrite #creativewriting #MatthewFélix #travelwriting #bookmarketing #blogging #podcasts #SanFranciscoWritersConference #SFWC
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