Slate and Style

The Magazine of the National Federation of the Blind Writers' Division
Fall, 2017

Shelley J. Alongi, Editor
s-and-s@nfbnet.org
Alternate Email: queenofbells@outlook.com
(940)500-8962

***

Table of Contents

Editor's Musings, Shelley J. Alongi	 page 3

Notes from the President, Myrna Badgerow	 page 4

2017 Writers' Division Contest Winners	 page 5

Her Library of Congress Torched, Jackie Williams	 page 7 

For Love of a Human, Rd Sollars	 page 8

Critiquing, Jackie Williams	 page 12 

What Do You Eat, John Batran	 page 15

Blocking Writers' Block, Shelley J. Alongi	 page 19 

Try to Capture September, Lynda McKinney Lambert	 page 21

Slate and Style Submission Guidelines	 page 23 

Join the Division	 page 24 

***

Editor's Musings
by Shelley Alongi

Here We Go! As of the fall issue 2017, I am your friendly crazy giddy Slate and Style editor. I last served in this capacity in 2009. Time and opportunity has allowed me the chance to serve again. 

Let me introduce myself. My name is Shelley, aka Queen of Bells. I currently live in north Texas with my two cats Pearl and Brandy. Pearl is my editor in chief. Nothing gets published or written without her approval. Brandy just doesn’t care. 

I have been involved in the Writers’ Division in some capacity since 1991. I met the late Lori Stayer, a long-time editor of Slate and Style and founing member of the Writers' Division on the first morning of my stay in Dallas for my first National convention in 1991. I have been involved in some capacity since that day. Those of you who regularly attend our Writers' Division telephone gatherings know me as the organizer of those events. 

I have a Bachelor of Arts degree in music. I self published my first novel, Trespasser, in 2015 and my second novel, Brave Pilot in 2017. They are available on Lulu, Kobo, Ibooks, Barns and Noble and Bookshare.org. My third novel, Forgiving Sky, is slated for release in 2018. 

Now to highlight the meat of the issue before you. The successful conclusion of our 2017 writers’ contest is featured with the publication of the youth and adult stories and poetry first place winners. Drawing on the wisdom and varied experiences of our members, we have culled for you articles on critiquing, and ideas on blocking writers’ block. We encourage your submissions to the magazine. Please consult our Slate and Style guidelines at the end of the issue. I look forward to being overwhelmed with work from you and others you may recommend. Please share our magazine with others who may benefit from the perspectives of both blind and sighted writers as we pursue our publishing dreams in 2017 and 2018. Let’s grow our division. 

Till we meet again in the winter issue, Happy writing from me and the crew. Keep dreaming!

***

Notes from the President
by Myrna Duprè Badgerow

Welcome to our 2017 Fall Issue of Slate & Style!  

First of all, I would like to announce to all our current officers and board members.
President--Myrna Duprè Badgerow
First V P--Shelley Alongi
Second V P--Chelsea Cook
Secretary--Katie Colton
Treasurer--Shawn Jacobson
Board member--Robert Gardner
Board member--Lori Letham
Board member--Kinston Walker

I am very honored to be serving as president of this division of the NFB.  I am also very new to this.  We are in a state of transition, of course, but with the help and support I have had, I see us moving forward and continuing to bring the Writers' Division into the next chapter. I will be appointing a new board member in the near future to replace Shelley Alongi, as she has accepted the appointment of First V P.

Our Writing Contest winners have been announced and I wish to offer congratulations to each one of you.  It has always been my belief that our writing is an expression of who we are within our heart and spirit and that is what is most important in our adventure of words. So to all I say, "Keep of the great work!  You are all what makes this Division what it is!"

The 2018 Writing Contest will be upon us in just a few months.  Guidelines and dates will be announced. In closing, I must thank the members of the board and the members of the division for their support.  I will strive to do my best!  I am learning as I go forward but learn I will! 

***

2017 Writers' Division Contest Winners

(The NFB Writers’ Division 2017 writing contest for both youth and adults opened on January 1 and closed on April 30. Look for information soon on our 2018 contest. Congratulations to all our winners. Look for their works to appear in future issues of Slate and Style.)

NATIONAL FEDERATION OF THE BLIND, WRITERS’ DIVISION
2017 Writing Contest Results

ADULT CONTEST

Adult Fiction
First Place "For Love of a Human" by  Rd Sollars, Arizona
Second Place "Days are Evil" by Robert Gardner, Illinois
Third Place “Leaving” By Abbie Taylor, Wyoming
Honorable Mention "Cosmic Bowling" by Shawn Jacobson, Maryland

Adult Non-Fiction
First Place none awarded this year.
Second Place “Kettle Working for the Salvation Army” by Eric Smiley, California
Third Place “Magnificent Meadow” by Tony Eames, California

Adult Poetry
First Place “Her Library of Congress, Torched” by Jackie Williams, Arizona
Second Place “Silver Cloud Dancer” by Lynda McKinney Lambert, Pennsylvania
Third Place “If I Were a Button Hole” by Jackie Williams, Arizona
Honorable Mention “Eternally Intertwined” by RD Sollars, Arizona

Stories for Youth
First Place “What Do You Eat?” By John Batran, Colorado

YOUTH CONTEST

Elementary Fiction
First Place “My Special Horse” by Ruby Spears, Louisiana
Second Place “Magic On Ice” by Joshua Fields, Illinois
Third Place “Pokemon” by William Souza, California

Elementary Poetry
First Place “Misconceptions” by Delaney Brooks, Virginia
Second Place “Orange” by John Paul Corman, New Jersey
Third Place “Church” by John Paul Corman, New Jersey

Middle School Fiction
First Place “Oh No! I’m Stuck In a Nightmare” by Monserath Espinola, California

Middle School Poetry
First Place “Needed Chevy Truck” by Levi Carter
Second Place “Of Man and Nature” by Rocco Romeo, California

High School Poetry
First Place “Untitled” by Chloe Ashford, Louisiana

***

Her Library of Congress Torched
by Jackie Williams

(Jackie Williams took first place in the NFB Writers' Division 2017 poetry contest. She writes varied poems and is a frequent contributor to Slate and Style, and the Stylist Writers' Division mailing list. She has been a teacher and writer for many years.)

She dies, a whole world dies.
All three buildings of The Library of this poet, 
Burned to the ground by time. 
The first building held the maps
of her travels, contest-winning poems, 
newspaper clippings, letters, work history, 
family history, public accomplishments, 
the facade of her life burned to the ground.
Saved in the could? 

The second building, held her known self
her needs, her giving of time and care, 
her faith, her health problems, her courage
a selfless life. The poems she wrote for herself,
for friends, for family were the essence of her DNA
feelings and thoughts distilled onto the page. 
Her loved ones hold these things in memory
as we envision her in the clouds.

The third building, with its "No Trespassing" sign
on a velvety green lawn, held cartons 
of private thoughts, childhood traumas, 
inner pride over achievements, of early loves, 
old fears and embarrassments, sacrifices 
the unrecorded secrets of her inner life
gone with the flames? Who can know whether 
or where the libraries of our memories are stored.

***

For Love of a Human
by Rd Sollars

(Rd Sollars took first place in the adult fiction writers’ contest.)

The hand extended palm up with a nugget of… something. A tiny pink nose sniffed with interest and then daintily grabbed the morsel with her teeth and sat down. She did deserve it after all, it was just unfair that she only got them twice a day. She squeaked in a soft quiet meow. 

“Good girl Jasmine. You are such a good little squeaker for me. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to live here all alone,” the sixtyish balding man said to his constant companion. “I love you little girl. Now you go protect the house while I get some sleep.” 

He smiled and stroked her long lustrous fur and then lightly rubbed her face. At that, he snuggled under the down comforter and flannel sheets. 

Jasmine leapt off of the bed and began her nightly routine. She walked slowly and patiently throughout the house, sniffing at all of the doors and windows. She sat expressionless staring extensively at the falling snow outside. Finally she was satisfied that her residence, which the human lived in, was safe. 

Jasmine sat in front of the Christmas tree, mesmerized by the tiny twinkling lights. She batted an ornament and a light but quickly tired of the game. 

She decided it was time to get the humans gift. She carefully extracted the thing she had cornered and killed that morning in the dining room. She gently and carefully placed it next to the two brightly wrapped gifts marked with a single name… Jasmine. She again sniffed excitedly at them but could smell nothing but tape gum and paper.

A few hours later the 8 pound ball of gray tortoise shell colored fur gently walked onto Robert’s body and began to soften her new bed. She turned around and kneaded several more times before settling down and flicking her tail across his head, his deep rhythmic breathing and heart beat giving her a sense of comfort and security.

He barely noticed her climbing on him. He snorted lightly in his sleep and soon was again sleeping soundly, oblivious to everything around him except for the erotic dream that was causing… a reaction.

Jasmine’s ears twitched ever so slightly as she tuned in to the noises going on outside in an ever present ‘cat sleep’. Dogs whining and barking, cats creeping to catch treats. People arguing and others laughing.

A noise she didn’t recognize and right outside brought her to nearly full alert. Her ears moved forward and her nose twitched. Again the noise, but still unconcerned. The noise came to her ears again and now it was time for action.

Robert was still blissfully unaware of… anything lurking in the blackness of the below zero North Dakota winter night. Jasmine alerted to full awareness with her eyes opening wide, her golden eyes turning nearly coal black as she watched the blackness for… anything.

She leapt towards the door as glass shattered. She raced down the hall to see a hand reaching in to unlock the door. She felt the bite of the wintry wind blowing through the door as it opened. Robert also heard the glass shatter and then felt the blast of cold air entering, awakening him. 

He threw on his robe and went to investigate, shuffling slowly. As he approached his office he heard voices and was startled by a man appearing in front of him. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Robert queried.

“We’re taking your stuff you useless old man!” the voice said with a chilling finality. Ragged and missing teeth showed as he opened his mouth and said “Where is the money you broken down slug? We want it and we want it all!” He whispered in a voice that sounded desperate.

“I have no money here.” 

He somehow found inner strength and flung himself at the younger bigger man. He began flailing his fists at him striking him in the face drawing flecks of blood.  

The younger man thrust upward with the hunting knife deep into Robert’s belly ripping the jagged blade up. A surprised gasp erupted from Robert and he fell off of the man onto his back. Crimson streams of blood pooled on the pale white skin and then ran off puddling on the tiled floor as he gasped and writhed in pain.

The young man stood up and inspected his job while wiping the knife clean on the robe. He then heard a low growl coming from …where. It seemed to be all around him, sending shivers up his spine. 

“Come on Jackson we gotta get out of here. Somethings wrong. I just heard a lion… tiger… or something.” 

The look on his face had gone from confident to frighten and turned white as the snow.

His companion walked out of the home office and said “There ain’t nothing in this house, man. Just a bunch of crap and an ancient computer that wouldn’t bring even a couple of Washington’s! He ain’t got no drugs or money and hell there ain’t nothing of value in this place. I agree, let’s get the hell out of here” he said disgustedly.

Jackson started walking down the hall and gave the dying man a slight glance.

“Will he be dead soon? Don’t want no damned witnesses. If he ain’t yet, make him de…” 

His body and heart froze as he heard the growling of a large cat. His eyes flew open spinning around looking for it.

The younger man looked ready to cry as he heard it again as well. 

“Man I ain’t gonna wait for nothin, I’m gettin outa here and screw him recognizing us. There ain’t no damned big cats up here! It’s spooky as hell!” he said in a voice that seemed to crack more and more.

Jackson pushed the younger man out of the way as they got closer to the door. They heard the growl  again… louder… closer… and angrier. As Jackson reached for the handle a large paw with razor sharp claws grabbed his hand and fangs tore at it. 

He turned around and saw his young accomplice staring at his feet while they screamed. Jackson looked down and saw a large cat with long grey tortoise shell colored fur. The gold eyes glared at the intruders, shining as if illuminated by an inner light, and a low Menacing growl emanated from its throat, fangs in full view.

The cat ripped the clothes into strips of red cloth…from the ski cap to the snow boots. A final swipe in the face and Jackson went down heavily onto the tiled floor. The younger man, his high-pitched wailing still coming, tried to make it to the front door. He lost.

The cat leapt onto his back digging its claws and fangs deeply into him refusing to let go, treating him like so much carrion. Gouges appeared in his head, neck, back, and legs. Blood began to pour through the wounds like rivers in a matter of seconds. The agonizing screams soon fell silent.

“911. What is your emergency?” the soft, and sleepy, feminine voice answered. “911. What is your emergency?” she repeated. Only agonized gasps came to her. She looked at the house number on her screen. Another attempt and then another. Still nothing. Her fingers flew over the keyboard and entered the address. The message box to the deputy said succinctly  ‘phone line is open and nothing but breathing heard.’ 

The deputy arrived and knocked. 

“Hello, this is the Ward County Sheriff’s office. Is anyone there?”. 

His flashlight moved around the front of the house and saw nothing unusual. He again knocked but still nothing. he listened intently and heard… something. 

He walked around to the back and saw the shattered door glass and a man lying in a pool of blood. He drew his weapon and entered, then was startled when he heard a jungle cat growling. He quickly glanced around with his flashlight but nothing.  The growl quickly faded to the faint meow of a house cat. 

“I have to be jumpy about something here,” he whispered to himself.

“County! This is Rogers, I have an emergency  at 710 West Sacajawea Rd, a half mile west of highway 83, mile marker 110. I need an ambulance and more units. I need them now! One injured with severe trauma to his entire body.” 

He checked the man and found him still breathing with the bleeding slowing to a mere trickle. Rogers stood up and then saw the young man. He checked his pulse and found…nothing. 

“From the looks of it, you bled out kid. Wonder what did this?” he said whispering to himself as he examined the long slashes occasionally interrupted by massive bites.

He again stood up and continued down the hall when he spotted Robert lying in a drying puddle of blood. A stab wound appeared quite deep but wasn’t bleeding. He knelt down and found him breathing regularly and the pulse was strong and not pounding like he would have expected with the amount of blood on and around him. 

He felt like he was being watched and looked up to see a pair of golden eyes staring intently at him from just inches away. Jasmine’s paws were on Robert’s shoulder staring at the deputy intently with her whiskers and ears forward.  

“Hello kitty. Are you okay? Is this your human?” he reached out and gently brushed her head as she meowed quietly and demurely. The eyes closed as the nose, ears, and tail twitched in contentment. 

“It looks like he’s going to be okay. Not like those two out there. Which reminds me I have to go look after them, well, one at least. Your human should be fine. Just stay and watch out for him until the ambulance gets here. I’ll take you to a shelter until he gets back home.” 

He stood up and went back to the front as sirens stopped.

The ambulances loaded Robert and Jackson before speeding away, sirens wailing in the crystal clear crisp North Dakota night. The coroner’s meat wagon took the body of the accomplice away slowly. Rogers then thought about the cat and began a hunt for her but couldn’t find her in the house.

Fearing for the safety of the cat he searched the cold snowy yard but found nothing but large cat paw prints and a dead rabbit on the freshly fallen snow. “No small paws just those of a jungle cat?” He locked up the house as he  pondered that riddle. 

***

Critiquing: a Definition, a Checklist, Questions, My Classes
by Jackie Williams

Part One: a Definition in poetry of what a critique group does

An Acrostic poem by Jacqueline Williams
(The first letter of each line spells out the message: “Each One is Unique.”)

A Coterie of Critiquers

Each of us in this group has a common denominator
An inner need to write
Competition is with ourselves—praise and appreciation for others 
However different our points of view—the skeptic—the devout

On one thing we agree—to set them aside—behave with respect
No jealousy or envy is projected here
Excitement is in the air when one of us gets published

In spite of this—it is not the dominant reason for writing
Skills at every level—we hang in and learn

Unique in ideas and talents yet open-minded 
Not afraid to expound then to expand
Intrepid souls—give us a word—we will write a book
Quite resistant to giving up on any challenge
Understanding limitations and also dreams 
Exploding rules—we fulfill visions and further each other’s goals

Part Two: a Checklist for Critiquing

With a nod to Gwyneth Box for poetry, members of my two writing classes, and to the members of the NFB Stylist Writer’s list. Because I am first, a poet, some of these items are specific to that genre, but surprisingly, most are relevant to all writing.

Of course I expect that you will make your usual inspirational and positive comment first and then add one or more of these special areas. If you are a beginner, just pick one and practice on your own content.

—	Is the subject widely relevant and accessible?
—	If a big issue, love, peace, is it an original treatment or theme?
—	Is the poem framed by the title, ending, metaphor, or other device?
—	Does the form of the poem seem to fit the content and structure? We have had many forms assigned lately. A good question to ask ourselves.
—	If the poem is rhymed, does it sound forced? Is enjambment used to help avoid this problem? Are archaic words, or inversions used to make the rhyme to fit the form?
—	Does the reader stumble over the rhythm or meter of a poem or article? This often means an adjustment of words is needed. 
—	Capitalization and punctuation. Does something like an over-used em-dash bother you?
—	Underline and think about getting rid of profuse articles such as a, and, but, the. Adjectives, pronouns and adverbs need attention. Strong vivid nouns and verbs are worth more than adjectives.
Unless submitted in a specific category like a “Shape It” award, be hesitant about a visual presentation. 
—Do you see any clichés? Make something different.
—	Can you identify a metaphor or simile? Internally consistent?
—	Word Choice: Appropriate? Redundant? Repeated often? Look up other synonyms.

Showing or telling: Besides the vivid nouns and verbs, using all of your senses can enrich your piece. You may need to acquaint yourself with figurative language. Here is a partial list: metaphors, similes, personification, irony, hyperbole, oxymorons and more. (It is difficult to give examples in the words allotted to this article. I suggest that you Google each term, and look for examples.)
—Which do you see, showing or telling, in the work you are reading?
—	Do all the elements mentioned above hang together?

For all genres, know your audience. Study the judge if it is a contest. Each genre has its own set of creative writing skills. Get the books and read, read, until you develop an ear for good literature, or for truly bad writing.

Part Three: Questions

For each piece of work you submit to a critique group, make a list of questions to guide the reader. I do that at the bottom of a poem so they read it after hearing it once with nothing to clutter the mind. Your checklist will assist you in doing this, for you have probably recognized your weaknesses and want others to offer suggestions.

Questions I often ask are: 
•	Do you understand what I am saying? To me, this means accessibility.
•	Please look for run-ons, or redundant words. I write sentences and stanzas or paragraphs that are often too long. It has been suggested that paragraphs not be much longer than fifty words. It can affect attention.
•	Lines in poetry are requested to be not more than fifty or so characters including spaces. This is for publication purposes.
•	Does my title set the tone, add to the understanding, and tie to the conclusion, preferably in a feedback loop.
•	Often a member will suggest a shift in the sequence of the stanzas.
•	I often ask for consistency in the tense and point of view.

Part Four: My Classes

The poetry workshop, Scottsdale, has eight to twelve attendees and meets from October until May. A van from the Center for the Deaf provides me transportation.  During the first half, assignments with examples and instructions are given. There are also other prompts provided if one wants to do their own thing. The second half of the class is given to the reading and critiquing of our own poems. 

With some brand new to the craft, and some seasoned published poets, there is an extremely wide range of skills available to the critiquing process. Many new members write nothing or say nothing. I find that even this is valuable, because it might tell you something about the accessibility of your own work. 

Our teacher might encourage a new member to concentrate on just one area, like hyphenated words, or redundant words, or whatever your strength is to comment on. Then a much smaller group of these meet during the summer every other week. With just four-six people, the critique process moves to a truly remarkable level. Often, there is an analysis one line at a time. This is where the real learning takes place.

The other class meets at the Mesa Senior Center, and the teacher picks me up and brings me home. It is a writers group of mixed genres. There are from four to six of us meeting weekly year round. The teacher is a self-published mystery writer with an extensive writing education. She regularly addresses many elements of good writing. It is truly a learning experience, and made up of people generous with their time.

Although I am unable to see the selections, and have a severe hearing problem, I still seem able to pick up significant things, and provide ideas or material to the writers, for I am an avid learner, and have saved articles forever. 

At a certain level, you need someone at an equal or higher level of craftsmanship to critique your work. Equally, you need to have an interest and be willing to give up valuable time to someone sincerely striving to make progress.

My pet peeve is when I struggle mightily with my impaired vision and mystifying technical aids, to give a meaningful explication of the poem, and a critique.  It is answered with no feedback. It can be two or more hours down the drain. I usually do not enter a piece to a contest before I have had it workshopped. I probably use more than half of the remarks to improve what I have written.  

The importance of support services cannot be underestimated.  Content is not supposed to sway our critique. Often, I like the content so much that I lose my objectivity, and the reverse also happens if I want to put that person into a slot and never read another thing of what he or she has written.

We are all unfinished works of art, and we have to keep making brush strokes to reach a higher level. 

***

What Do You Eat?
By John Bertran

Squeaky, the little mouse, was chewing on wood in the wall one day when all of a sudden he stopped.

“This is way too hard just for a little piece of cheese,” he said.  “I wonder what other animals eat.  Maybe I can be something else other than a little mouse.”

When he got outside, the yard was very large.  He looked around and in the distance he saw some large animals in the field, so he headed that way.

He walked up to the first animal he saw and said, “Hi, I’m Squeaky the mouse.  What kind of animal are you and what do you eat?”

“I am a cow, and I eat grass.  The grass turns into milk.  Then the farmer takes my milk and everybody is happy.”

“I don’t like grass and I wouldn’t want to be milked.”

“You are a funny little mouse,” said the cow.  “The farmer couldn’t even get a pail or a stool under you even if you could give milk!  Now moooove please so I can eat the grass where you are standing.”

The mouse turned and walked away.  He didn’t go far when he met a bigger animal with leather straps on his back.

“Hi, I’m a mouse.  What kind of animal are you and what do you eat?”

“I am a horse and I eat grass and hay.”

“Do you give milk like the cow?”

“Hee, hee, hee! You make me laugh!  No, I pull the plow and the wagon.  I am real strong.”

“I was wondering if I could be a horse too,” said the mouse.

“Hee, Hee, Hee, Hee!  I am sorry to laugh, but you couldn’t even put on the harness, let alone pull the plow.  Sorry little buddy.”

The mouse left, not giving up yet.  Soon he smelled something funkie, and saw an animal up to his belly in mud.

“You are filthy!” exclaimed the mouse.

“I know, isn’t it great?”

“I am a mouse.  What type of animal are you and what do you eat, and why do you smell so bad?”

“Well, I am a pig and I am special!!  The farmer says if I get big and fat, he will wash me up and take me to market this Fall.  So, if the farmer is happy then so am I.”

“I do not want to be a pig anyway,” said Squeaky.

On he went on until he came to an animal with feathers, eating something on the ground.

“What are you eating, and what are you?”

“I am a chicken and I am eating grain that the farmer or his wife throw down for me. All I have to do is give them an egg a day.”

Just then she let out a cluck and an egg dropped out!  The little mouse gasped because the egg landed right beside him!

“I could eat the grain, but I don’t think I could lay an egg, so I don’t want to be a chicken.”

“Oh, you would get used to it after a while.”

The little mouse turned and walked away.  A short time later, he came upon a small pond and was taking a drink when something popped up out of the water!

“Oh, you startled me,” said the mouse.”

“You gave me quite a fright too!” responded the animal.

“Why were you under the water like that, and what are you anyway?”

“I am a duck, and I went down to get my lunch.”

“Oh, what did you eat?”

“I think it was a tadpole.”

“What is a tadpole?”

“It is a frog-not-yet. I can show you how you can get one too. Jump in!”

“I don’t swim.  Thanks anyway.”

And the mouse continued his search.  A very short time later, the little mouse smelled a faint odor.  It didn’t take long for the smell to get stronger, and then Squeaky came face to face with a fuzzy animal.  It was black and had a white stripe down its back.

Before the little mouse could even think, he blurted out, “You stink!”

“Excuse me!” the animal replied, “You say that I, Monsieur Rosay, smell and you do not approve of my choice of perfume?  I suggest you apologize to Monsieur Rosay at once or suffer the consequences!  If you do not believe me you may come across the guard dog; and if you do, tell him that Monsieur Rosay says ‘Howdy.’”

The little mouse turned and ran away as fast as his little legs could run.  He ran for ten minutes before he had to stop.  After he could breathe normally again, he went on.

It was just a few minutes before he heard a noise and stopped to listen.  He thought it was chewing.  He looked around a tree and saw a big brown animal chewing on a bone.

“Hi, I am a mouse,” said Squeaky, “What are you eating and what are you?”

“Well,” said the animal, “I am eating a ham bone, and sometimes there is some meat which is soooo good!  I am the guard dog around here.”

“Oh, You are the guard dog.  Mr. Rosay told me to tell you hello.”

The dog’s head came up suddenly, looked all around quickly and asked, “Is he here?”                                                          

“No, I ran away after I told him he stunk.  He is not one to mess with.  I can tell you that! I don’t suppose this place could have two guard dogs?”

“No, there is hardly enough to keep me busy.”

“That’s what I thought,” and the little mouse went on.

Minutes later, Squeaky saw a building with dark birds in it.  He asked them if they were chickens.

“No,” they said. “We are turkeys.”

“Why are you in there and not out loose like all the others?”

“The farmer and his wife want to keep us safe. They have invited us up to the main house, one of us for Thanksgiving and one for Christmas.  Isn’t that nice?”

The mouse spotted a couple of pieces of grain and ate them hungrily.

After talking to the turkeys for a few more minutes, he left.  The day was almost gone and he was still just a little mouse.

All of a sudden, he saw an animal that he could be!  He was fuzzy and the animal was fuzzy.  The animal had a long tail and he had a long tail.

So Squeaky walked right up to the animal and said, “I am a mouse.  What kind of animal are you, and what do you eat?”

The animal said, with great enthusiasm, “I am a furry kitty and I eat mice!" 

***

Blocking Writers Block
by Shelley J. Alongi

Since January 2015 I have published two novels through Lulu.com and Amazon.com. I am working on a third novel slated for publication in 2018. I have several more novels on my writing horizon. Shortly, I’m planning to publish two novels in one year. In addition to all these ambitious projects I have written a story or two which I publish on storymania.com. I’ve written several blog entries for Goodreads.com, I write numerous Facebook posts, and now I have the privilege to edit Slate and Style for a second time. This is my writing experience in a nutshell. 

This year I was asked to put together a bio on my life, since I had moved to a new town and had taken up a position as pianist/organist for Sunday services. The church newsletter editor wanted to put an article in it about me so I found myself with yet another writing project. In my writing past, before there was one, I edited several newsletters and have published numerous short stories and essays. 

One of the questions I get asked by people who know me is do I ever get writers’ block? The short answer for me is no. How do I manage to put out such a large amount of material? 

I have several ideas I’d like to share with you about that. The hope is that this sharing will help you in your own writing endeavors.

I have three ways in which I handle this amount of writing. The first way is to write. The second way is to write. The third way is to write. I don’t analyze what I write. I don’t look at words on paper and try to choose the right words immediately. Sometimes I engage in what I affectionately call “spitting on paper.” I simply write the ideas in their raw form and then leave them till the next scheduled time for writing. I don’t worry because I know I’m going to reread my work numerous times and I can always make changes. 

Another trick I use to block writers’ block is to write every day. The writing doesn’t have to be perfect. If I wanted to, I could sit down and think of one sentence and try to make it perfect the first time. This would take entirely too long. Sometimes the ideas come in snatches. I write them and use words that express them though I know I could find better words. My philosophy is that given a short amount of time I will think of the correct word to express more perfectly the idea. If I can’t think of the more appropriate word I will consult the dictionary for synonyms. 

I find that if I conduct my writing this way I will get results that are not only quality, but they are well thought out. The key is that I go back to the ideas on paper and add to or take away from them. As ideas begin to form into a story I sit down and write an outline, including the sequence of events and possible ways characters and plots can reach completion.

I may not always start with the best idea. By the time I return to the story or chapter of a novel and reread it after several tries, the ideas start to coalesce into a story. Suddenly, almost without knowing it, I’ve written a logical engaging story. 

This approach at blocking writers’ block takes some time. I want to produce the best that I possibly can. I just don’t try to do it all the first time I sit down. Is my writing worth reading? There are those who think so. There are probably those who think I could do better. Usually I think I could do better. 

Writing the ideas with the words that come to mind, I have a starting point. I can cultivate the piece from the beginning of the idea. I can’t cultivate and nourish anything if I don’t plant anything. 

I drop seeds on paper and using the ideas that started it, I let the story take wing from there.

Another thing I do is read all the time. I read everything. I read biographies, Christian fiction, espionage, romance, self-help, academic things, anything that will give me a different exposure to different voices. Every author has a voice and because I do spend so much time reading I am abel to easily identify the voices. I feel that doing this helps me develop my own voice, incorporate techniques that I like in other authors work, and keeps the words flowing on the page. 

These are the main ways in which I foil the villain of Writer’s block. I can’t write something if I don’t start with something. 

Since you may be looking for ideas on how to block writers' block, take your courage in hand, write, rewrite again and don’t look back. Given time, a little bit of luck and a lot of practice you can block writers’ block.

***

Try To Capture September
By Lynda McKinney Lambert

(This essay is from Lynda’s newest book Walking by Inner Vision available from DLDbooks.com.)

I’ve spent days thinking about September. How can I
write a poem about her? Rapid changes are occurring all
around me this month, and I’m getting dizzy! I’m
downright giddy with bursts of nervous energy. This zest
charge was unexpected, hidden in the mists of the crisp
early morning. I floated, it seemed, at the crest of
September with my feet stretched downwards to dig into
the sands of its shoreline. I have been unsuccessful!
Since the beginning of this fast−moving month, I tried
to pay attention to the small nuances and living details I
experienced. I moved carefully, even cautiously, from day
to day through the month of ever–changing September.
Yes! I am standing at the midpoint of the month, and I still
feel like I am lost at sea.
I take a deep breath, hold it in for a couple of seconds
as I remember my fingers. I look at the computer screen. I
exhale. Nearby, my sleeping dog shifts in his black, furry
bed. In his sleep, he snorts, and my leather chair squeaks
as my fingers pound out some letters on the stiff keyboard.
I move my body forward again and bring my mind back to
September. The sun streams through the dusty window.
158
y back seeks the stability of my solid chair. I raise my
hands to my face, close my eyes, and think about my
breath. As my chest rises, I become aware of the sharp,
piercing call of the eagle flying above the trees outside the
window.
At the beginning of the month, I took short walks in
the woods. I saw subtle changes. My two dogs stopped and
sniffed the breeze. They tried to catch the news of the day,
to bring it home and share it with me. We paused on the
path, and I watched them stop and stare into the privet
bush, then up into the trees. They paid close attention to all
the wildflowers as I touched them. I tried to concentrate
on the details—to memorize each little fine distinction of a
fragile yellow crownbeard flower or the dark blue–green
leaves of the white snakeroot plant. I asked, “How does it
look in the shade? How does it feel to the touch? Try to
remember it all!”
I reached out, touched the trunks of trees as we
traveled together in the afternoon sun. I recall the feeling
of textures and the girth of a tree in my arms as I tried to
encircle it. I needed to touch the overlapping surface of the
locust tree, to put it in my memory bank, where I can
retrieve it when wintry days become anxious and lonely.
Eventually, I realize what I searched for in September.
Every new day in this quest twists and turns in on me as I
search for the form that would be perfect for my
September poem. I begin to visualize myself as a whirling
dervish. I swirl in circles, round and round, and my feet are
on sifting and shifting sand all the time. My thoughts race
far faster than I could ever write. My entire body quivers
159
inside because of all the raw sensations that this month
gives me.
I realize September is the one month of the year that is
a charade. She is undependable, captivating, and quixotic.
She cannot be captured in the pantoum I had intended to
put her into. I think, I’ll catch her by a sliver of one of her
yellow petals! Then, I’ll flatten her out between the pages of
a villanelle. But as it turns out, she becomes a book of sand,
and I simply cannot get a grasp on her!
This morning, I tried to put some words to my paper. I
had to step over obstacles of images and feelings. I said, “I
have to just go after a little piece of September. I need to
catch her unawares, and grab what I can. It might be just a
fragment, or an adjective. Do it quickly, and run fast, bring
that piece to my paper and slap it down with glue. I’ll have
to use E–600 for this job! What will be large enough to
hold uncooperative September?
“Yes! I’ve got it now. My tribute to September will be
an ode. It will celebrate precocious September perfectly.”
My “Ode for September” must be hefty and as
unsettled as she.
My ten–line stanzas will be a passionate song about
September, the whirling dervish.

***

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