Editor and Publisher Nadia Giordana—Cloud 9 Publishing (763) 433-0270 Email: MississippiCrow@msn.com Associate Editor Mary Deal Author, Writer, Pushcart Prize Nominee Website: www.writeanygenre.com Apprentice Editor Brittany Mabusth Minneapolis, Minnesota
Front Cover: "I Am My Art” by Nick Piliero. To see more of Nicholas Piliero’s incredible artwork, go to www.yessey.com and if you mention you saw this in Mississippi Crow, Nick will give you a 20% discount. Nick can also be reached by email at piliero@hotmail.com (Be sure to put “Piliero art” in the subject line so he will be sure to open it.) Back Cover: “I Am From...” by Maggie Behrendt Centerfold: “Girl With Crow” poem and art by Sue Midlock Visit her website at http://www.wix.com/suesart/suesart.
Contributing writers and artists alphabetical by first name: C.P. Stewart Carlos Ponce-Melendez David Kowalczyk David James David Moe Donna Marino Elaine Pedersen Elaine Rosenberg Miller John O’Connor Judah Mahay Howard Winn K. H. Solomon Liz Minette Mary Deal Myrna D. Badgerow Oritsegbemi E. Jakpa Pat Blue Pat O’Regan Paul Marino Raw Andrew Rhian Waller Sue Midlock Shawn Nacona Stroud Sheila A. Williams
Special Feature: Raw Andrew Interviews Nadia Giordana, Author of Thinking Skinny
Sentences
To Purchase Issues of Mississippi Crow, go to http://stores.lulu.com/RiverMuse
Midnight stars whisper Upon velvet, slipping into dreams And their fading sighs Trail shadows of sentences Being written across sky
Mississippi Crow magazine takes its name from its location— near the confluence of the Mississippi and Crow rivers in Dayton, Minnesota. We publish artwork, poetry, flash fiction, articles and essays (on a variety of subjects). To see our guidelines, go to: www.MississippiCrow.com.
Copyright © 2009 Cloud 9 Publishing, ISSN 1934-5631. No portion of this magazine may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form—electronic, mechanical or other means without prior consent of the publisher and/or of the authors of the individual works. All rights revert to authors upon publication. Are YOU in it?
Efficiency Simplicity can complicate. In my eagerness to tidy up, to downsize organize prioritize, I find that you have turned up missing. The garbage truck came yesterday. Too late to look. All of the bins are empty. —Elaine Pedersen
I hear the words tumbling softly, one over the next, and feel each nuance, each subtle inflection. The ink of intimacy flows so sweetly, and I, lost in its rhythm, reach for my pen of curiosity. Sentences spill forth, one, then two… and I forget to breathe as that last whisper slips away leaving the sky to silence.
—Myrna D Badgerow 1
The Lanai by Mary Deal
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Birds in Translation Happy chirping of birds fills my mind my ears from the tree outside my window Daylight filters in I wake too early from the dream open my eyes my ears yet hear no birdsong but stranger sounds I rise on an elbow to peep out the window A grader scrapes up asphalt in preparation for repaving The machine’s joints squeak and squeal loudly in protest sounding like a tree full of winged chatterers My sleep state had translated the squeaks to pleasant chirps I snuggle deep in my bed throw covers over my head and lay quietly in drowsy silence waiting to hear again the happy chirping of birds in translation.
When Your Main Character Refuses The protagonist sits like a lump of wet coal, unwilling to talk or eat, unable to cry. Nothing you do will make him jump for joy. His goal in this play is to balk at fate, and let the wind carry him like cottonwood across the fields. He will not walk or run, will not lift a finger to change anything in this grim plot. If the sky falls, he’s crushed. If lightning strikes, he’s charred. Call it whim or call it ignorance, but he will not crawl away from the burning car; he will not drink the antidote. He’ll stand there and let the bear maul him into bite-sized pieces of drama.
—David James
—Mary Deal Are YOU in it?
3
c.p Salute You waved from your high window and I waved from mine, across the steep road into Wass Woods, one summer’s morning, early. You waved, I waved, each raised a hand, no more, two solitary men, the green woods humming and work to be done. Today they marked your passing with a generous page, praised your life and art, spoke of that golden age and simpler times... and I searched out this old notebook and found the lines:
Published by Koo Poetry Press, November 1, 2009. www.koopress.co.uk
The Executioner Bird
He waved from his high window and I waved from mine, one summer’s morning, early, across that steep road into Wass Woods.
The Lesson
I work my field. The world goes by.
I wanted to write. You wanted to learn to ride your bike. You won, of course, and off we set.
You work your sky. I have long grown accustomed to your shadow’s passing.
The old routine— two hands, at first, then one, before the unseen letting go.
When you are ready…
Eighteen years in the twinkling of a morning.
I shall not be looking up.
Some things, they say, you don’t forget.
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stewart Made in China
Two Crows
Today I found your plastic sword, Quite by chance, in that space,
And me.
Between the hedge and the summerhouse, Where the ladders are kept and some jerry-cans of diesel.
Three mourners In the stubble field. One October morning.
And I have spent a long hour, Turning it over, in my hands, Grieving, my son, To think that you have gone unarmed these twenty years.
Pipes Old men now We smoke and talk Of those golden days When our pipes were new.
The Summons
The Revenant Girl Do I remember, you wonder, my lost one, back from the dead, and tilt your sly head to let a stray tear fall.
Yes, I remember every shimmering day, and where we walked, and where we lay, and every word love made us say, but who I was, I don’t recall.
I know you are waiting And You will have my answer very soon If you could bear with me a little while longer It’s my nature You see Unlike Your Blessed Son I would do almost anything to avoid being nailed down Are YOU in it?
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Four Crows Whatever it is that makes them do it, four crows lift out of elm branches, one after another, and swing through air, as if strung on a pendulum, right towards a scalloped, concrete edge of the county courthouse. Then they veer away, at the last second, and dive back around, up into the trees to land - a circle. Perhaps by their flight, they're taking back this tall-columned tombstone we all work in. Or they're taking back the plastic bags, caught in branches, ripped and flapping like torn slips. As the crows settle now, satin commas among new leaves, a spool of audio tape, music unstrung, from someone's cassette hangs like tinsel below them. The tape's shiny surface winks as the wind twists and turns it. And in the official gardens that flag the courthouse, the crocuses have come up early, tulips unfold their slipper bodies to the sun. —Liz Minette
On Listening To Rain I hear what is – the rain comes down in sheets. It pounds the roofs and cars and yards and streets. It drums and runs and drips without a halt. Continuing to hear is difficult. Just when there should be peace, the mind rebels. It stirs and speaks in silent decibels. Too much anxiety. Too much caffeine. The mind, like what it knows, is harsh and mean – As if a bitter divorcee sat next To her ex-husband at the country club While he was introducing his new love To everyone on any slight pretext. —John O’Connor
Vessel
Slow Coffee
raku seventeen glazed empty bowl holds more than Japanese cuisine
on a warm terrace I sit for slow coffee—and tender memories
—K.H. Solomon
—K.H. Solomon
Hands Within autumn’s hands Rests a time traveler A maple drifter Left behind by November wind Rushing to its next season I can almost feel it within my own hands, this last trembling leaf. As I stand here beneath its lofty perch, I hear it whisper in the wind, brittle breath against branch. I imagine its edges curled, protecting heart and soul. And I wonder why it has not let go, why it remains after all its companions have gone. I reach to touch, wishing that I could grant it freedom, freedom to drift away. But my hand slows… stops… and instead I cradle it, this time traveler, this maple drifter. I believe it would sadden me too much to hear it leave…
—Myrna D Badgerow 6
Mississippi Crow Magazine
Reflection by David Moe Are YOU in it?
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Raw Andrew Interviews Nadia Giordana, Author of
RA: Is this book just for women, or can men do this too? NG: The book is written from a woman’s perspective, but my formulas and suggestions can easily be adapted for men.
Thinking Skinny
RA: How much weight did you lose and how long did it take you to do it?
RA: How did you come to write Thinking Skinny?
NG: I lost 88 pounds over a period of 14 months.
NG: I didn’t originally intend to write a whole book. In fact, in the beginning, I didn’t intend to write anything more than personal entries in my journal and maybe an article for my online blog about my weight-loss endeavor. As I began to lose more and more weight, and when I noticed it was coming off steadily, I started planning to pull my notes together into a booklet or ebook that I could make available on the Internet. A short time later, it wasn’t a quantum leap to see that I had the makings of a real book—one that would be a companion to virtually any healthy weight loss program popular today. My methods are meant to work along with the reader’s chosen weightloss program to give it a greater chance of succeeding. However, in the book, I do include the details of exactly how I ate in case someone wants to follow my lead. It wasn’t until after I had surprised so many people with such a significant loss of weight, that they began asking me, “What’s your secret?” “How did you do it?” “Can you write it down for me?” “I want to do it too, show me what you did.” That’s why I decided to do the book.
RA: How did your family and friends react when you told them you were going on a diet—or did you tell them? NG: I really didn’t say anything in the beginning except to a few. Since I wasn’t going out much during that time, it was around four months into the program when people close to me started to notice. At six and eight months, I was creating quite a stir. For family and friends who had known me all my life and remembered me from when I was thin, this was a welcome return to normalcy and they were excited and encouraging to me. RA: So is this a new diet? Is it complicated? Are there recipes to follow? NG: No. I wouldn’t call this a diet book in the trendy sense of the word. There are already plenty of those on the market right now. Thinking skinny is more of as perspective on weight loss based on my personal experiences as I went through it and how I structured my program to fit my dietary likes and dislikes so I ended up with something I could Continued on page 14
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Rain at Waterford
Food For The Mind
Rinsing the road, rain hissing like fish frying in a pan. The leafs are all hanging on the elms like washed shirts.
Words are mind fodder, Rare minted rhyming cutlets, Piquant green basil anapesto, A slice of pink smoked, honey-cured enjambon A leafy caesura salad with blue cheese dressing, Finished with a large glass of round, red fruity teza rima
The wind is moist & cold, its webbed fingers comb through my hair like tide through river weeds. I think nature has always been so, different people seeing the same rain. I close the window & turn to you as you lie on the bed, I whisper good night.
—Rhian Waller
Reflections Golden Glow Burnt Umber Allizaron Crimson Sap Green art shades fall —Pat Blue
—Oritsegbemi Emmanuel Jakpa
Looking for Life
Masked Woman at a Poetry Reading An ache in her gut, her faith in existentialism more numb than lost, she clings to the romantic fantasy that Lacan is her biological father. Louis Lacan, Jacques Lacan, any Lacan will do. She is emaciated, possibly anorexic, and addicted to migraines. Her face is adrift with pain. Salt spills from her nostrils. She labels herself a “closet Luddite” yet spends twelve hours a day on the Internet. She can only achieve orgasms in graveyards. Her type is common. Some would say generic. —David Kowalczyk Are YOU in it?
In my teens, I liked hunky guys; in my twenties, guys who were fun. In my thirties, I looked for successful men; in my forties, for someone who held his looks. In my fifties, I needed a wealthy retiree. In my sixties, I realized that I had overlooked finding myself. —Mary Deal
Lazy Writer’s Lament As a writer (or so I brazenly call myself), I find myself so often torn between my desire, my need, my keening and yearning to produce the great American something-or-other and my laziness, my fear, or my willingness to be seduced by the latest Top Ten Bestsellers by real writers who actually write, who put discipline and duty before pleasure, leisure, and procrastination, workers of words, their clay and their putty, so that when they are done, they may sit back and smile at their children, their progeny, lined up on shelves, real volumes, pompous and pretty. —Elaine Pedersen 9
3 A.M. Another hot August night. Too hot to sleep again. I was sitting outside on the front steps smoking a Camel in my babydoll pajamas and clogs. Overhead, it was a full moon and the sky was clear, except for those million or so stars probably all dead by the time I was seeing them. But their light sure lived on. Clear sky and no clouds meant another scorcher tomorrow, which was already today. I hated the heat, always had. Hated the way the sweat formed that dirty black ring around my neck and then trickled and tickled all the way down my back until it joined up with the elastic in my shorts to leave that burning, raw ring around my middle. Yeah, sweat and heat and me, we’ve always been enemies. Didn’t help none, either, that I worked as a presser at the little laundromat and dry cleaning place two blocks from where I live. While anyone else might run home and hop in the shower soon as they got through their door at the end of the day, there were weeks when I didn’t bother washing for two or three days in a row. With the steam and humidity rolling through that place, I figured what’s the use. Just gonna stink some more tomorrow. Might as well save on the water bill and wait until the weekend, or until some guy asked me out – which hasn’t happened in a while. Yeah, it’s been a hell of a long dry spell, and I sure hope the draught is gonna be over soon. It’s bad enough to be so hot, but to be hot and so damn horny, well that’s just about more than anyone should have to take. I took another drag and looked up at the big old elm tree in the next yard. Not even a breeze tonight. How was I ever gonna get through this? Sweating all day and then sweating all night, too. Life sure wasn’t fair. Then, to top it all off, I hadn’t had a man for going on seven months now, not since my last old man decided he’d had it with me and my broken down old house and beater car and my three bratty kids. Said he deserved better than this – and maybe he did. So did I, but like I said, life ain’t fair. Pregnant at 15, married at 16, divorced when I was 20; together with my ex just long enough to poop out the three kids and to find out that I didn’t take much 10
to being anyone’s human punching bag. After the final drunken brawl, when I lost my two front teeth and got three busted ribs, and had to tear him off our youngest kid to keep him from banging her head into the wall, I’d had it. I grabbed the gun he had sitting on the table and without even taking time to aim, I’d just fired it at him. Took him by surprise and even took off the top of his left hand little finger. Scared the hell out of both of us. While he was still holding his finger, screaming and swearing, I’d grabbed the kids and made a break for the car, shoving them in and peeling out of there as fast as that ratty old Buick would take us. Left everything behind – not that there was very much to leave in the first place. I hadn’t even noticed the pain from my ribs until we were about 10 miles out of town, when I finally stopped to figure out where we were going. I never went back. We had a few hard months in a shelter for battered women, until I found a job in a meat packing plant and we could finally afford to get our own place. It was a dump, but it was ours, and we didn’t have to be afraid of being killed every time we came through the door. Since then, we’d had to hightail it out of a couple of places in the middle of the night because my “ex” caught up with us and threatened to kill us all. We had finally just packed everything into a U-Haul and driven in that old Buick all the way across the country, from Oregon, to where we are now – Minnesota – where it’s either too hot or too cold almost all the time, but the air is fairly clean and the kids have made some friends. We haven’t had any trouble from my “ex” for over a year now. I hope that means he’s finally given up on finding us and will just let us live in peace. Upstairs, I hear my three-year-old start crying in her sleep. Happens almost every night, and it still hurts me every time it does. I know it’s because of all the shit she’s gone through already in her short little life. I grind out my butt on the step and go back in the house, where it seems even hotter than before. I stumble up the stairs in the dark until I come to the room she shares with her ten-year-old brother and her seven-year-old sister. I know Jimmy is old enough to have his own room now, but we just can’t afford it. Maybe next year, if I can find a better job. Without turning on the light, I make my way over to Tina’s bed and scootch her over a little before Mississippi Crow Magazine
sitting down beside her on the sheet. She’s stopped crying for the moment, but I know she’ll probably start up again in a minute. She always does. I take a look around the room at the sleeping forms of my other two and feel that protective mother bear thing come over me the way it always does when they’re sleeping and the whole house is silent the way it is now. It’s times like this when I come closest to understanding the meaning of those words “maternal instinct” and realize just how much my kids really mean to me. But when they’re screaming and hitting each other and tearing up the house, the way they do almost every night when I’m trying to maybe look at a magazine and relax a little on the couch, I swear I’d sell the whole lot of them for a penny apiece. And while I’ve never smacked them, I’ve come close sometimes because they sure can make me feel like I’m losing my mind. Tina starts to cry again, then opens her eyes and sees me. She cries even harder then and reaches out to grab onto me. “Shh, honey, it’s okay. Don’t be afraid; mommy’s right here,” I say to her as I pull her into my lap and start to rock her back and forth. She pushes her thumb into her mouth and then pulls it out again to say, “Mommy, I had a bad dream. Somebody was trying to get me and they were going to hurt me. I just know they were, mommy, and I couldn’t get away from them.” I pull her head close to mine and make gentle cooing noises as I brush the tears off her lashes and hot little face. “Mommy’s not gonna let nobody hurt you, sweetie. You’re safe right here,” I say, feeling the sadness and guilt wash over me for all that they’d all been through. I’d been through it, too, but I’d at least had some part in all that had happened to me, while they were just little innocents forced to come along for the ride. I keep rocking her tender little body until she’s back asleep, then ease her back down onto the bed, not even bothering to take her thumb out of her mouth. If it comforted her to suck her thumb, then the hell with it. We could deal with the buckteeth later if they came, not that I really believed that caused them anyway. Hell, if that was true, for all the years I sucked my thumb – even now sometimes when I was feeling low – my teeth would be poking out so far in front that I could open beer bottles with them, which I can’t. I crept back downstairs, still restless and Are YOU in it?
nowhere near to sleep. Even sucking my thumb wasn’t going to ease the load and comfort me enough to do it tonight. Instead, I pulled another Camel from the crumpled pack on the kitchen counter, lit up, and moseyed on back out to the front steps to sit a while longer. Only good thing was that tomorrow was my day off. Maybe I could sleep in – if I ever got to sleep in the first place, that is. Of course the kids would be up bright and early as usual, but after I dropped them off at the daycare, maybe I could crawl back into bed for a while longer and just doze until I felt like waking up. This subsidized daycare was one of my few luxuries and I took full advantage of it, even using it on my days off since they fell during the week. I figured what with how hard I worked and how little fun I had, I at least deserved to have a little peace and quiet for a few hours twice a week. Besides, the kids liked it. they got to see their friends and it was air conditioned. Even the older two didn’t seem to mind being there. The air around me was so heavy and moist, it felt like a hot washcloth thrown over my whole body. And the only sounds were the crickets rubbing their legs together and a siren off in the distance. It was kind of spooky, but also nice. I didn’t often get the chance to see the days from this side up. I kind of liked this being alone, just the three of us, me, the moon, and the night. I stretched my legs out in front of me and leaned back on my elbows on the steps, stretching my neck out and up like a turtle taking a good gander at the starlit sky overhead, taking these few precious moments to get myself out of my shell for a bit. Then, just as I was really beginning to feel myself relax, the tension draining off my shoulders a little, enough so that I thought maybe I could snooze a little on the couch for a while if I tried, I was jolted back by the clicking sound of heels and the low metallic squeak of rusty wheels coming down the sidewalk from the other end of the block. Because it was so bright with the streetlights, the moon, and all, I didn’t have to strain any to see what was coming my way. It was one of those big old English pram kind of baby carriages, being pushed along by this teeny tiny black woman with big round kohl-blackened eyes, long fake eyelashes, fuchsia eye shadow with little gold sparklies, fat dimpled hot pink Kewpie doll rouged cheeks, big purple-pink lips, and a serious overbite. 11
And out of the top of her head sprung cornrow after cornrow of crispy orange-red hair with deep black roots. For a moment my eyes betrayed me and I was reminded of those old fashioned court jester heads that used to pop out of the jack-in-the-box when you cranked the handle. It was like a little parade, her tottering along in these tiny Barbie-doll-type stacked heel sandals in a little skintight leopard print miniskirt and crisply ironed white peasant blouse with big flouncy low-cut collar where her glistening black cleavage was putting on quite a show by itself. The way the moonlight hit her head, it made her hair look almost like it was shooting off little metallic sparks in the dark. The whole effect was more awesome than awful. So when she came up even with me, her shoulder length clunky gold stars and moons earrings bouncing a cadence with every jiggling step, I half expected to see either a monkey or a seal pop out from under the hood of that carriage, squealing or barking in time to some circus calliope that only they could hear. But no, the carriage was empty, except for a perfectly crocheted soft—the softest seashell pink color I had ever seen – baby blanket and a pacifier and tiny yellow baby rattle lying in the middle of the perfectly made-up little bed with the little white linen sheet top folded ever-so-neatly and preciously over it. I didn’t realize that I’d been holding my breath in anticipation until I heard the little whoosh of air that rushed out when I looked in the carriage. For just a moment, the woman stopped. The earrings, the hips, the cleavage, the heels, they all came to a halt right in front of me as her big brown eyes – sad eyes really -- met mine. In that singular shared moment, I saw that she wasn’t garish at all, not something alien and foreign in all that makeup, but beautiful, with a soft glow that lit up her whole face when she smiled, which she suddenly did, blessing me and bathing me with her radiance. I blushed a little under that forthright gaze, but smiled back, and almost thought I heard her speak. But no, it was only the sound of the carriage wheels as she went on by, under the next streetlight, around the corner, and out of sight.
—Elaine Pedersen 12
Word Play News worthy literature . . . It has been recorded, albeit, in outdated editions of Word Wise, that Anne of Lexicon was neither verbose nor laconic. No, her reputation had always been that of a refined bluestocking lady. She was a woman not solely recognized for her beauty, but was also well renowned for being one who was well-educated and well-versed. At least that is what has been documented in word-books lining the shelves of libraries and households alike. Word Association Press, however, has recently reported findings obtained through word of mouth, that word spamming has viciously strewn supposed, and unsubstantiated strings of words throughout the commonwealth of linguistics—in no particular word order and in no time at all—thereby causing Anne of Lexicon much undue word stress. This was merely the beginning of Anne's downward spiral. It wasn't long before said findings led to an indictment of a capitol offense. What started out with a jot and tittle has become one of the largest word problems ever known to word-hoards and word-smiths since the days of parchment and quills. And it was all set into motion with a simple turn of phrase. Word travels fast . . . Word-searchers accompanied by word-catchers from dynasties near and far turned up at Word Square (Lexicon’s judicial Court) early yesterday afternoon, anticipating hearing Anne of Lexicon’s word-for-word account. Her testimony would undoubtedly erase the public eye's illustrated word pictures created by word painting. You see, her faithful readers would simply take her at her word. Inside word . . . A jury of twelve was hand-picked by none other than a select few belonging to a group of elite chair members in the Lexicon House of Etymology. Continued on next page Mississippi Crow Magazine
3– Idioms 2– Clichés 1– Quotes 2– Poems 1– Essay 1– Short Story 1– Flash Fiction 1– Run on sentence
should her reply be "yea", made them cringe. Such a lewd offense was punishable by certain death at the hands of Corporal White-Out. Her reply? Not a word. Period!
Word Perfect characters arranged themselves in structured lines in an attempt to keep word order in the court. While word processors sat idly by awaiting the trial to start, anxious to begin word processing the words that would soon spill over Anne of Lexicon's lips. The crowd gathered with one purpose in mind: to make reasonably logical word sense of this most difficult word-puzzle. Crosswords echoed between prosecutor and defense as they squared-off. Words flared while neither one would bend their grammatical rule of ethics—both being word-deaf and word-blind—each making claim that their word-size was bigger than the others.
After being released on her own recognizance, Anne of Lexicon sped off in her Greek Lexis. Moral of the story: silence is golden.
—Donna Donna Marino
Courtroom attendees from both upper-case and lowercase families perceived the two bantering pen-pushers to be…well, a wee bit wordy. Nevertheless, all male characters glanced down between their pages to see whether or not their word-size left much to be desired. Court is in session . . . An eerie hush hovered over the courtroom as Editor and Chief, Noah Webster, approached the bench. Anne of Lexicon slowly made her way to the stand. After crossing her eyes and dotting her Ts (yes, that was deliberate) she sighed, as if to imply she was bored. Soon after, the prosecutor stood before her hissing his first question with a bold (in your face) stance, as his sunken eyes locked on to hers. “Anne of Lexicon, is it true, that on the evening of January 11th you were found flaunting your fullbodied, well-rounded words while engaging in a public display of wordplay?" he spewed, in a self-righteous tone. The courtroom fell silent as onlookers inhaled Anne's every breath. Being aware of the fate that lay wait Are YOU in it?
My Little Black Dress I threw it in the corner in the closet on the floor Because my little black dress don’t fit anymore It’s just not right it’s way too tight My little black dress and I are starting to fight It hates my thighs, despises my hips My little black dress just refuses to zip We used to go to parties and stay out late Now my little black dress says lose some weight —Sheila A Williams Diet Poems of a Hungry Black Woman is currently available directly from the author. For information, email Sheila at hungryblackwoman@gmail.com 13
Interview continued from page 9 follow permanently without ever feeling I am on a diet. Thinking Skinny offers you the guidelines in such a way that you won’t feel overwhelmed, or that you will have to balance fats, carbohydrates and protein with the precision of a pharmacist. I didn’t want this to become known as a recipe book, but there were a number of recipes that helped me get through the rough spots and they are included in the book. For the most part, I prefer to keep the foods I eat simple and uncomplicated as mentioned in the section I playfully named, “Going Commando in the Kitchen”. RA: You mention a daily dialog with God, and you also talk about using visualizations. Is this a Christian book or would you say it falls into the category of new-thought we hear so much about? Can you give us a clear picture of your personal philosophy?
NG: The visualizations I use are faith-based, with emphasis on involving God in your daily life. It’s another way to use the power of prayer. I can honestly say that once I gave it all up to Him, I knew from day one that this was going to work. I do make reference to the law of attraction in the book because its all the rage, and I talk about why some people claim that the results they get are inconsistent at best. I think that is because they may be missing the point and attempting to draw from a source of personal power rather than giving it up to a higher power. My personal leanings are clearly Christian, but even in that community there is room for disagreement about the use of visualization techniques. I can talk about this with a certain authority because I was a student of the new-thought philosophies for a number of years before finally devoting some time to studying the Bible and becoming a practicing Christian. I’ve seen it from both sides.
Sue Midlock 14
Mississippi Crow Magazine
RA: Does that mean it is necessary for a reader to be a Christian for your techniques to work? NG: No, but naturally I like that idea. My diet and eating methods stand alone, and it is widely recognized that visualization techniques can sometimes be effective on their own. As I said, some practitioners of The Secret report good results—some don’t. It’s my personal conviction that if you give it up to God, you have a much greater chance for success. RA: Are you a nutritionist or a dietician or are you in the medical profession? NG: I am not, though I have studied nutrition and healthy eating independently for more than 20 years. I do have an association with a registered dietician with whom I consult whenever I have a question. She is mentioned in my book and I have a link to her web-
site on mine. It’s my habit to defer to trained experts whenever I have a technical question that needs answering. RA: What about goal-setting Do you address that in the book? NG: Yes, I set down an easy-to-follow, three-tiered approach that begins with setting a realistic goal to get you started, then raises the bar once you know you are on your way. It ends at tier three with what I call the “Showstopper”. Essentially that means I want to pull the participant through to a true completion. In too many cases, once a decent amount of weight has been lost, a person begins to think to themselves, “Wow! I did it. This is great. I can get on with my life now. I look pretty darned good—better than I have in a long time. This is about as far as I thought I could go and I’m pretty happy.” Continued on page 18
Mary Deal Are YOU in it?
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Girl with Crow Oh beauty rare you stand alone Amongst the crows you glow And sitteth on the meadow green Upon the apropos. For overhead the bird did caw And make its presence known That there he found a love in you To which you did atone. He flapped his wings with such distress His cawing filled the air Then suddenly without much thought He flew down with despair. She saw his plight, which made her sad And so she softly sighed That he forgave her ignorance And wed her for his bride. —Sue Midlock
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Are YOU in it?
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Interview continued from page 15 This is when I offer them the showstopper philosophy: Why not go all the way? Why not lose all the weight you need to lose? Now is the time, its right in front of you, within your grasp. The following is one of my favorite quotes, by Bob Proctor: “Set a goal to achieve something so big, so exhilarating that it excites you and scares you at the same time. It must be a goal so appealing,
so much in line with your spiritual core that you can’t get it out of your mind.” RA: Did you have setbacks or prolonged plateaus? NG: No, not really. Following this method, my weight loss averaged around 2 lbs per week with only minor ups and downs. I believe the nightly visualizations helped keep my efforts consistent. RA: We hear a lot about the recommended 2000 calories per day diet for women. What are your opinions on that? NG: I’m particularly glad you asked this question because calorie intake is the bottom line, pure and simple. If you eat more calories than you burn each day, you will gain weight, and if you eat less than you burn, you will lose. The 2000 calorie per day guideline is just that and as I do in the book, I will use myself as an example. I was a petite, (5’2”) mature woman with a sedentary job. In the beginning, I was eating more 18
than 2000 calories per day, but even 2000 calories is too much for someone like me. I include a detailed formula in the book for readers to calculate their true daily calorie needs. It’s an important section, but there are numerous websites on the Internet that offer digital tools to calculate this for you. RA: I see at one point you mention watching the TV program Biggest Loser. What is it about that program that helped you and was there anything about that show that didn’t click with you? NG: I couldn’t relate to the extreme exercise regimen the contestants were put through. Though I recognized the importance of exercise, I had a leg injury that prevented me from doing weight bearing exercise until after I had lost more than 60 pounds. I did, however, relate to the personal stories of the contestants, their enthusiasm, determination, and desire to change their lives. I picked out one gal, Ali Vincent, who was about my original size and weight and I tracked along with her, comparing progress weekly weight-ins. For me, watching the weekly weigh-ins acted as an anchor point for me to renew my resolve, and even though my weight loss wasn’t as dramatic or as rapid as for those contestants, it nevertheless kept me motivated to finish what I started. RA: What are some of the other tips and pointers you include in the book? NG: To name a few, I talk about how to find healthy, lower calorie replacements for desserts and treats, delaying ratification, learning how to read labels, tips for dining out (like eating off the appetizer menu and sharing entrees with your companion), knowing your triggers and literally dozens of other things I employed to make this happen. Things I still do today to maintain my weight without dieting. RA: I see a chapter called “Relationships: Four Critical Factors That Could Derail Your Success”. What can you tell me about that? NG: You’re going to need a support system, and you’re going to need true friends and family around you for encouragement and support. In this chapter, I cover some of the surprises and pitfalls you may enMississippi Crow Magazine
counter with regard to relationships. For example, fear--and the grief and loss response on the part of others, and also your own. Most of my current friends had never seen me as a thin person, and from them, came the surprise. Overall, the responses were on the positive side, with a few who seemed uncomfortable and uncertain how to interact with me—as if I was a person they had just met, while others reacted or responded in a manner that could be compared to some of the well-known stages of grief and loss:
replaced, relatively suddenly, with someone who is happier, more confident, more outgoing and who looks completely different. It's been tough for me and for them, and sadly I fear one or two relationships won't survive. RA: You mention a food journal, what’s that all about?
Denial—Example: "She/he'll stop this nonsense soon and life will get back to the way it used to be." Anger—Example: "Things were just fine the way they were. Why is she doing this?" Bargaining—Example: “If I ignore this, she won't keep it up.” Depression/confusion—Example: "I don't know where I fit in this person's life now," or "They probably won't want to hang around me anymore. I should probably just move on." Acceptance—Example: "Maybe this isn't so bad, and maybe things will be okay. I can't fight it, I may as well accept it." These stages can be applied to any form of catastrophic personal loss, like the loss of a job, or physically, the loss of a limb, or even the death of a loved one, or a divorce. Virtually any significant personal life change can trigger these reactions. Surprisingly, the change in circumstances does not always have to be a negative one. Getting that highly desirable job for example, and any number of changes in your life that, although positive, can upset familiar routines enough to cause a grief-like response. Losing a significant amount of weight falls into this category, and it can affect not only the people around you, but you too! Case in point: For a few weeks, I experienced a sense of personal loss—not unlike an amputation. I lived with those extra pounds for many years and in a matter of months, they were gone. I was mourning the loss of 45 percent of my body mass.
NG: I include two important tools at the end of the book. A five-day chart for the reader to use in determining what their eating habits are right now, and a food journal page that they can make multiple copies of to record their daily calorie intake as they get their program under way. Raw Andrew interviews well-known figures in the weightloss industry. Some of those interviews appear at his website: www.shedyourweight.com
Some of my friends and family are mourning the loss of the shy person they loved who has been Are YOU in it?
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THE EDITOR The contest editor yawned as he slit open a manila envelope:
Another
day
of
reading
mundane
unpolished
stories and sending out standard rejections. “Wish I could receive an omen to tell me which of these pieces is publishable,” he said. “You
and
your
omens,”
the
assistant
said.
“You
wouldn’t know an omen if it wrapped itself around your finger.” The editor pulled out the contents of the envelope and pondered the intriguing title. Attached under the sticky note that held the check to the cover letter was one stray strand of long hair that caught in his ring and wrapped around his fingers. The hair irritated him. That entry wouldn’t get his vote.
—Mary Deal
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Mississippi Crow Magazine
STRANGE DAYS by Elaine Rosenberg Miller
The man sat in the bed of a pick-up truck, facing her. They were stopped a traffic light. The hot late afternoon sun beat on her windshield, creating oscillating waves that distorted her vision. Her children played in the rear seats, strapped in for safety, bickering, arguing, demanding. The man stared right back at her. He was very handsome in a nonchalant manner. His graying hair hung loosely to his shoulders, framing his classic features. He had a noble head, similar to the statute of Augustus in the Metropolitan Museum up north. Yet, here he was in south Florida on a street named Okeechobee Boulevard, riding in the back of a truck. With a start she realized that he resembled a late popular singer who had died at age twenty-six, He had been found dead of a heart attack in his Parisian bathtub. Or had he? Theories abounded. They said that he had tired of the music business, wanted to disappear and staged his death. His coffin had been sealed, it was reported. Only two people had actually seen the body, one his common-law wife, who allegedly died just a few years later. Had she dissembled to join him exile? When she had been younger, his songs, lyrics had been provocative, his looks leonine. To her, all other men measured against him, failed. Today, as she did every day, five days a week, she drove to two different schools and delivered her children, worked an eight hour day, then retrieved them. This day, she had decided to go to the market. They were out of peanut butter. Is it possible? she demanded. How? What would he be doing in West Palm Beach? If he goes through that light, I’ll never see him again. Where could he be living? He had been born in Florida, hadn’t he? She had read it in an article. He might know his way around Florida. He could hide. Why hasn’t anyone else recognized him? She remembered the youth, her youth, wearing an appliquéd tee shirt. A slash of satin fabric. Are YOU in it?
Lighting Lady, she had named herself. She danced, her body flowing with the music. Understanding for the first time, the power of hypnotic attraction. “Maa! He hit me!” “Don’t hit your sister," she mumbled. Had he crooked his head? Had he acknowledged her? How long was this traffic light? His smile was ironic. “It’s him!” she swore to herself. He has gone from being the idol of millions to having no car and hiding in the Everglades. He’s so beautiful, she mused. Why is such an attractive man riding in a pickup truck? She hated the south. Despised the small mindedness. The drawling speech. Its violent history. Yet, she had followed her husband back to his childhood home and stayed. She had been an urban person, loving the fast moving street life of the north. Okeechobee. It sounded like a fungus. She had told him that she would try it for six months. That had been several years ago. Everything had changed. She was resigned. That night, as she danced on the stage, having been pulled up from the audience, she felt her slender body on fire. The spotlights shown on her as well as the performers. “I want a lollipop!” her son demanded. Wordlessly, she handed him candy. “Not that, a lollipop!” “Me, too!” the other child said. She handed them what they wanted. Don’t go, she pleaded as the light changed and slowly, then with increasing speed, the truck moved forward into the intersection. She followed it. He smiled, bemusedly. “I want pisgetti for dinner!” her daughter said. The truck roared on. Her eyes peered at his retreating visage. “That’s spaghetti,” she sighed. “Say spaghetti, sweetie.” “Pis-ghetti.” He was a cipher in the distance. 21
River Boners I sent out a query letter to a magazine a few weeks ago. The editor actually called all the way to Hawaii and thanked me for the best typo she'd ever seen! A couple years ago, I began taking nutritional supplements that have done wonders for my health. Even my fingernails, which normally never grew past the quick, now extend a quarter inch past my fingertips. It's a great sign that the nutritionals help in other ways. However, my long fingernails now interfere with being able to type at warp speed. I press a key with the fingertip, or the side of my fingertip, but the nail depresses the key next to it. As a result, I must scrutinize my work for typos that never happened before. I'm tempted to cut my nails because of that one error in particular that I’ve probably made more than once. Notice that on the keyboard, the "e" and "r" are next to each other. When I press the "e" I also accidentally type the "r." The editor called to say that when typing the name of my novel, River Bones," I inadvertently created a typo and wrote "River Boners." So, how have your typos embarrassed you?
—Mary Deal Willow Willow, of a specter’s dream, breathe You fell lightly down the dew covered well Like a broken feather your bones whistle Caught up in the wind of your end You forget why What irony It dispels all that is you Crack against the dry bottom It becomes useless You don’t even remember who pushed —Judah Mahay
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Proof That I'm I'm An Ass Last year's attempt to rebuild a 34 year-old Japanese carburetor myself, only added explosive back-firing to its symptoms. Just yesterday I took another step away from selfsufficiency. I wished, as before, to liberate myself from high-cost, specialized services when unnecessary, in this case dental medicine. One of my two remaining wisdom teeth is in the midst of another agitating growth spurt. The tooth is in a state of "super exposure," meaning it has protruded from the gum enough to require no incision for extraction. Having had two such wisdom teeth pulled last calendar year, I was freshly familiar with the simple operation. For those who haven't had super exposed wisdom teeth removed, it involves nothing more intricate than grabbing hold of the tooth with pliers, prying the tooth from side to side until the root bone cracks, shimmying the tooth from its place, controlling the blood loss, making sure the blot clot remains in place and avoiding infection until the wound is healed. The cost of this simple procedure performed by a dental medical doctor is approximately two hundred dollars. Rip off! After a day of pensively fingering the tooth and considering the possible dangers, I decided to perform the extraction myself at home. My principle concerns were blood loss, clotting, infection, and pain. For blood loss, I had on hand paper towels wrapped in wet gauze. These I would stuff in my cheeks and gently bite down on until the wound clotted. It is common that oral blood clots become dislodged by suction and complicate the healing process. For this, I reviewed the do's and don'ts as prescribed by dentists following tooth extraction. For infection, I rinsed my mouth with Listerine before the extraction, and resolved to rinse it gently multiple times daily after the extraction. For pain, I had in stock Ibuprofen, Mississippi Crow Magazine
Aleve, and some left over painkillers prescribed to me when I sprained my neck last June (also selfinflicted). The best defense against the daunting pain, however, would be unyielding toughness. For this I prepared myself mentally and downed a glass of Geary's Winter IPA. I chose the pliers from several pairs in my tool set. At first I thought needle-nose pliers would work best, but the level of torque seemed insufficient. Next I tried the square-headed Lineman's pliers, which could not properly grip the tooth. Though I think vice-grips, had I owned them, would have worked best, I decided on the basic slip-joint pliers. With their cupped and toothed head, they gripped the tooth sturdily and would provide enough torque. My housemates on the first floor, I secretly set up the materials on the second-floor bathroom counter and washed the pliers thoroughly with hand soap. I looked myself in the mirror and chose not to second guess the controversial plot. I set the pliers firmly on the unwanted tooth. Gripping the handle ends tightly I tested its torque with a wiggle that produced a small but distinct fracture sound. Now I pried with controlled but heavy forced on the tooth, bending it outward until I heard a crack, then bending it inward until it produced an equal sound. I repeated this step to ensure complete detachment. The endeavor was all going even more smoothly than expected. I imagined myself healed and showing off the extracted tooth to friends and strangers, saying, "You don't need to go to dentist for simple stuff like wisdom teeth. Just pull them out yourself like I did." The extracted tooth would be a keep-sake symbolic of my courage, self-sufficiency, invulnerability to exploitation by said specialists. Now that I had completely fractured the root, I pulled upward on the tooth, shimmying it, in an attempt to complete its removal. I expected to admire it in my palm momentarily. I expected to see and taste a great wealth of blood flowing forth from its socket and second. The tooth, however, was not coming out. My failure at extracting the tooth turns out to be a most fortunate stroke of luck. I removed the pliers from my mouth and sensed a quantity of pulverized tooth matter release from where the pliers had grasped. Though I had experienced some jolting Are YOU in it?
pains deep below the gum line, my efforts had resulted in little more than busting apart the tooth. I sent in my fingertip to assess the new situation. To my great dismay, it was at this moment that I realized I had been trying to extract the wrong tooth! Distracted by the various preparations, I had selected my target absentmindedly. I had busted apart and loosened a perfectly good molar, behind which the nuisance wisdom tooth sat unharmed! I awoke this morning with the memory as fresh on my mind as a disturbing dream, and for the split second it took my tongue to reach the wrecked tooth, I prayed it was one. Not a year ago, I paid for a dentist to fill a cavity in this molar with the intention of preserving it. My right jaw now throbs benignly, and when I attempt to chew with the back right molars, even lightly, I experience a shooting pain that is not benign but paralyzing. Of the molar, perfectly good until yesterday, I busted off about a third of the tooth's volume. Its surface is now shallow, jagged and sensitive. I can no longer enjoy cool beverages. This proves nothing. Yours, insufficiently self-sufficient,
—Paul Marino The Bible Condensed And God created everything And the good and the evil were everywhere And his Son came and died And he said he’ll come back And we are waiting for him And the good and the bad are everywhere. —Carlos Ponce-Melendez
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The Paranoid Nothing stirs my soul quite as much as the beauty of Mother Nature. Capturing an image of that beauty on film is a thrill that draws me at least once a week into the woods. For my sensibility, autumn is the best time. I love the colors. On a lovely fall afternoon, my favorite photographic trek is on the trails of Sylvan Pond Preserve – a wooded wildlife area near the city. The Preserve is far enough into the countryside to be free of the noise, the odor and the clutter of the city. One can even imagine, in the Preserve, being deep in the woods in the northern part of the state. But for the occasional other hiker, one is alone with Nature. The setting is gorgeous. The Preserve features hardwood trees of many kinds, a lovely brook and an idyllic pond. In the fall, the oak, birch and maple trees paint the woods in such colorful array that one catches one’s breath time and again. “The hand of man,” one thinks, “no matter how skillful, could never match this work of Nature’s art.” The effect on the sensibilities is stirring, almost jarring. I’m not the mushy type, but I can stand for a long time at the pond, enrapt by the beauty of the setting, when the pond is surrounded by trees ablaze, and a pair of mallard ducks floats peace-fully on the still surface of the water. My soul exalts at the sight. “This is home,” it proclaims, “here I belong; this resonates with the deepest part of me.” So, alone in my house in the heart of the city one Sunday afternoon, suddenly the thought struck me – “Oh, I’ve got to get into the woods.” Irresistibly, I had to escape the knocking clamor and confusion of living in a society that is to a great extent detached from its essential humanity. Hurrying, I grabbed a jacket and hat and the bag with my camera gear and set off on the short drive to the Preserve. I parked in the lot and got on the trail to the pond straightaway – my usual destination, before escaping deeper into the woods. The day was clear and almost still. The trees, 24
arrayed in their finest glory, seemed to proclaim their beauty through the viewfinder of my camera. Shimmering golden birches vamped among a stately, peach and reddish stand of maple and oak. I stopped time and again to fire shot after shot, laughing aloud to be immersed in such surpassing beauty, as if the beauty were somehow physically pressing itself upon me, demanding attention irresistibly, and I were saying, “Okay, then, have your way with me.” Coming up to where a short spur trail leads down to the pond nestled among the trees, I saw in the distance a man standing alone and facing me. He was over-dressed in a parka, stocking cap and mittens, with heavy boots and blue jeans jammed into the boots. Looking right at me, he was talking, somewhat loudly. His voice was harsh and discordant. Stopping, I regarded the man curiously for a moment, trying to catch what he was saying. “What?” I finally yelled. “Are you talking to me?” Shaking my head and laughing, I came on toward him. He stopped talking as I came up, staring at me fixedly. When I got close, I could see that he was a man of about thirty, of strong, stocky build, with a broad face, small eyes and thick eyebrows. But the notable thing was his expression, which was singularly strange and markedly pained, as if his countenance were fixed in an expression of hurt and fear. His mouth bore an open-lipped snarl. “Hello there,” I said, extending my hand. “I heard you talking. You must be talking to me. We seem to be the only ones out here. My name’s Charlie.” He didn’t take my hand; he didn’t even seem to notice it; he just continued to look at me with the same strange expression. “Get away from me,” he barked. “What are you doing, coming up to me? Don’t you approach me, or I’ll mace you.” I looked hard at him, my smile collapsed. “Go on, get away,” he said. “Get. Leave me alone. Don’t come up to me.” “Okay, okay,” I said, turning away from the angry face. I went down the spur trail toward the pond. Behind me, I could hear the man still talking: “Stay away from me… Keep away… Don’t come up to me Mississippi Crow Magazine
like that or I’ll mace you….” “Paranoid,” I thought, coming to the pond at the usual place I stop to take shots. I regarded the pond for some time, thinking, “Just paranoid… Harmless, though… Perfectly harmless… Afraid… He’ll always be afraid…” The pond was still and lovely, a slight breeze ruffled the birch leaves. The red and gold colors were reflected in the water as bright as the originals. I took several shots. “I wonder where he lives,” I thought. “Does he have a job? He was dressed expensively.” A flight of ducks swooped overhead and, extending their webbed feet, set down and floated blissfully on the quiet water of the pond. I fired several more shots. “I wonder if he’s getting treatment,” I thought. “No doubt, he is. But, as I understand, paranoids are very hard to deal with. Too bad… Hiking out here… The beauty stands no chance…” When I came back up to the main trail, I encountered the paranoid man again. I heard him before I saw him. He was standing on the trail toward the parking lot some thirty feet away, and, looking hard at me, talking a mile a minute. He had the same expression, but he was talking faster than before. I could only make out bits and pieces of what he was saying: “Don’t ever approach me, again… Next time I’ll finish it… And it won’t be with a lawyer, either… Keep your distance… Don’t come near me… I’ll mace you…” I smiled and waved to him, said, “Good luck,” and headed away. As I walked away, his words fell harmlessly on my back, scarcely audible, but continuous. “At his age,” I thought, “he has perhaps another fifty years of paranoia ahead, before death finally comes to give him peace. How awful, to be consumed with fear every waking moment of one’s life. How perfectly awful.” I took the trail along the brook, which gurgled gently and glittered in the sun. Coming to a huge basswood tree, one of my favorite photos, I stopped to get shots. Its beauty through the view-finder was especially riveting this day. I fired several shots at the burnished golden and shimmering leaves. I looked back. The man was still in the same Are YOU in it?
place, looking at me and vociferating loudly, though almost lost to my hearing. “He only wanted somebody to talk to,” I thought. “He’s lonely… Good luck, young man. Take care. God bless you and keep you.” I walked further down the trail along the brook. Finally, I followed the trail into the woods. Taking a last glance backwards, I saw the man was still at it – looking at me and talking a mile a minute. Giving myself a mental tug, I kept on into the trees, disappearing from the paranoid man’s view among the foliage.
—Pat O’Regan
The Madwoman Who Imagined Herself A Poet Words tumbled out of her mouth like marbles from a jar, all colors and sizes, round and rolling away under the furniture, lost to sight but trapping dust in the dark. Some will remain camouflaged in the colors of the rug to cripple an unwary naked foot or roll under the sole of an innocent shoe to unbalance the walker. She imagines herself as Sylvia Plath but is wary of bleak suicide and death does not call her home. She knows she is outside when she dreams. Awakening, she abases herself before imagined editors and publishers and is often successful in her mad world. She remembers her taciturn father and her gullible mother and hopes she has escaped them into this wild world where she lives the life of Blake, or Henry Miller, turning on the light of the stars. —Howard Winn
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Article Writing Tips Article writing tips can help you compose informational pieces that will attract a greater degree of publicity. You can make money writing articles. These short pieces require tight, descriptive sentence structure. Articles may cover full descriptions of items or topics, but it is done in brief format, with fewer words due to tight sentence structure. Whatever it is you wish to promote or sell, a well-written description or synopsis will spark the interest of those looking for such information. They will come to your Web site to learn more about that which you offer. Perhaps you do not have something to promote or sell. Maybe you just want to publicize your thoughts about an item or occurrence. Your slant on the topic must still be interesting and informative in order to hold your reader’s attention and belief. If all you wish to do is submit articles to various publications and make money writing, the article writing tips are the same. Each piece of prose should be factual and polished to the best of your ability. *** Articles consist of more information than announcements; yet, as referral pieces, do not cover the entire subject thoroughly. The idea is to catch and keep the reader’s interest so that they seek out your Web site to learn more. Or, perhaps they will purchase your book for in-depth information. Too, all your articles can be accumulated into an anthology or book form. Remember, though, that in book form, writings should be more informative. A brief article published here and there will advertise the book that is expected to be the ultimate accumulation of facts. For example, you are a tinker who knows how to fix just about anything. You write instructional articles about one item or another. You 26
find you’ve written a book full of these short pieces. My suggestion in this case is to submit a few of these to various Web sites and/or publishers who request such information. Applying good article writing tips, and once accepted and published, you will be able to refer readers to your completed book of more descriptive articles – provided it is published, of course. Actually, any article in that book can be a “leader” and published elsewhere, to gain the reading public’s desire to ultimately purchase your book. *** What follows are article writing tips to help you improve your writing. We all hope to make money writing. 1. Know the topic about which you wish to write. Be sure you are not including two or more topics in one. Example: You want to write about the goodness of apples, how they grow and the nutrients they contain. You think you’ll also include information about how to core an apple or other fruit. Don’t! Coring an apple is another topic that you may include when composing an article about coring other fruit. Unless you write about the entire history of apples—which would be a long article—focus on one aspect only. Save the rest for…. another article! 2. Once you have your topic firmly in mind, create a TITLE that offers a benefit to the reader. Your title will be what stimulates the viewer to keep reading. If you’re writing about apples and their nutrients that could be the title: Apples and Their Nutrients. Or Nutrients found in Apples. However, better still Nutritious Apples. Make your title short as you dare, but make it say what the article is about. 3. If you know anything about how the search engines find you on the Net, then you know that you must have keywords that the search engines use to find anything. Use those keywords when introducing your article. ~ Apples and Their Nutrients are better for you than you know.
Mississippi Crow Magazine
~ Nutrients in Apples are some of the best health aids of all time. ~ Nutritious apples help you maintain better health. 4. In the first sentence of your article, you could ask the readers a question to get them thinking about how the article relates to them personally. ~ When was the last time you ate nutritious apples once a day for a week? This would imply they should eat an apple a day, and we all know that slogan, and we know it is a very wise one. But your article won’t be on eating an apple a day. It’ll be on the nutrition a person receives from eating them, maybe once a day, and you should reiterate the purpose of the article in the first paragraph.
9. List the benefits of including apples in the daily diet. Make a bulleted list with the most important benefit at the top and work down. You can also list benefits found in apples that are hard to find in other fruits. And don't forget; let the reader know the nutrition and benefits they are missing by not eating apples. 10. The last paragraph of the article is short to wrap up the points made. Include those key words again in sentences. Include a sentence to remind the reader of the benefit of eating nutritious apples. 11. The usual format by publishers when articles are accepted is to provide a block at the end for links. Use this space to refer readers to your Web site for more information. You can also provide a link to your book sales if that is the purpose of the article. ***
5. In the body of the piece, break up blocks of paragraphs by including highlighted facts and benefits. Include brief sub-paragraphed analogies and metaphors. 6. Make each paragraph short as possible, no more than 2-4 sentences. Online reading can be hard on the eyes. A lot of “white space” between paragraphs and with indented margins is not only easy on the eyes but also much easier to follow. Brief paragraphs are also faster to read. 7. Keep yourself out of the article. If included, remove or change each time you use “I.” Keep the focus of the benefit on your reader. If you must reword sentences removing “I” to replace with “you” then do it. Reword any of those incorrect uses. 8. Most of all, do not lecture. You may be the world’s top expert on the nutrition of apples. But if you lecture instead of engaging your reader, you lose their attention and they will not read to the end of the article.
Are YOU in it?
These article writing tips apply when writing about any topic. New anthologies pop up frequently that call for articles. Those books deal with specific topics. The articles need to have a lasting shelf life. Books, hopefully, stay with us a while, some for years on our shelves. However, when you submit articles to be published on the Internet, information may go stale quickly as times change. A demand for fresh information on the Net always exists. If all you wish to accomplish is to write for the Net, and you think you can make money writing articles, then begin to make a list of topics about which you know enough information. Then apply these article writing tips and do not stop until you’ve written all those articles. That is, stop once in a while to submit them here and there…. With interesting topics and great sentence structure, you just may make money writing. These article writing tips should help.
—Mary Deal 27
Building a Story How to begin a new story when your Muse has taken a vacation. A friend of mine—I’ll call her Judy—had written a novel and was in the process of sending it out to literary agents seeking representation. She and I knew that first-time authors typically needed to have two or more completed manuscripts in hand. Publishers do not make large profits on an unknown writer’s first book but on subsequent publications. Money is spent on publicity for the first book, to establish a reputation for an author and build readership. With these aspects already established, on subsequent books, larger profits are realized. Too, publishers were more apt to believe that a writer was capable of turning out numbers of books if they did so of their own volition. So, Judy needed to write another story, and fast. She had just completed the rigors of editing and deep polishing the first manuscript and felt burned out. I suggested she take a breather for a week or two; maybe even get away for a vacation. She is not one to shy away from responsibility, so she pleaded with me to help her find a way to conjure another plot because her Muse had taken the vacation for her. I never thought about how to start a new story. My stories just rolled out whenever I allowed myself to think. Then I remembered a few techniques I used in establishing characters in my first novel and passed those steps along to her. The one presented here is the procedure that worked for her. She took more than a month conjuring characters and, not surprisingly, the story unfolded as she went along. By the end of three months, she had completed the first draft. But something happened along the way. Her Muse evidently decided she liked the excitement of the new story and returned promptly from vacation. In following the steps given below, Judy came up with an idea for a sequel to her new story and then decided to make it a serial. *** Imagine an image of a person you’d like to have in one of your stories. From that mental image, build a character. She or he will probably be your protagonist. 28
This may change, so beyond recording the character’s physical attributes, do not think further into the story. If you have written short stories and have a favorite protagonist, you can use that character to help flesh out another one. The technique presented here works best if you start fresh with a character about which you know nothing. Then you’re less likely to follow the plot line of the other story already written. Just have a person in mind and start simply by listing physical attributes: age, color of eyes, skin tone, hair color and any other details you feel you wish the person to have. At this point, do not list anything like the fact that the lady changes hair color frequently, or has a nail biting neurosis. This has little to do with establishing the basics of physical image. If something “extra” does come up in creating the character, then your Muse is beginning to feed you details of a story you have yet to consciously realize. If this extra information may to be pertinent later in your story, then you can add it. Be simple in the primary description and make a separate list of added details as something you may include later. Next, give the person just enough of a life so that you know what makes your character unique. What does she or he do for a living? How many other family members? What are her or his best personality attributes, or worst ones? What other relatives share this character’s life and how does your character interact with them? What SECRETS does your character hide? Another example: If you give your character a facial tic, try to conjure why she or he has it? Is it the result of some repressed emotion? Is it from some shock long ago? How does this unnerving habit affect people presently in the character’s life? What crisis from her past does she have to work through to eliminate the tic? Who’s involved? If nothing like this comes to mind for your character, don’t worry. Something else is on the way! I like the part about the secrets most. Many people have things they wouldn’t want the world to know. If you were to draw it out of them, you’d probably find some shocking information, juicy tidbits around which to build your plot, around which to motivate your character. See where this is going? By the time you’ve got the first character established, you will have introduced us to other people in her life. Next, choose Mississippi Crow Magazine
one of those secondary people and build another character sketch. It doesn’t have to be a love-interest either. The next character can be a public figure she or he is trying to emulate, or someone who has been stalking her or a neighbor, or…. For the next character, you do not have to use any particular person included with the sketch of your main character. You can start fresh again and build a whole new person. Later, something in that creation will tell you how to bring this person together with your main character and the others. Finally, your characters will tell you a story as you create them. Begin to write about how these people interact. By the time you get this far, you will know where your story is going. Trust the process. You will have conjured something important to say about these people, their lives and their impact on one another and the out come. Write without editing. Let your mind wander from the rational to the absurd. As you write, you’ll find yourself choosing which path you wish the story to follow. In the end, you may not use most of the information you pack into your character sketches. But because you have taken the time to build your characters, you will know how they react in all the circumstances presented in your plot. A morally upstanding person reacts one way to a certain occurrence; a frivolous person reacts a completely different way to the same situation. You will know these people because in building character sketches you create their motivations, which will surely spice up your plot.
—Mary Deal Mary Deal is the author of three published novels, “The Tropics,” “The Ka” and “River Bones” (available at amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.com.) She has written numerous stories and articles and her website is a valuable resource for writers: www.writeanygenre.com. Mary was a 2009 Pushcart Prize nominee.
Heavenly Delights Snow, like powdered sugar floated lazily down from the heavens. It covered the ground as if it were a cookie. Delicious and tempestuously sweet, my mouth watered and I laughed because I was so silly. Even still, I was in a glorious place. Surrounded by the thing I loved most, snow. As I walked, they grew bigger and quite fat. Squeals of delight echoed loudly as I stuck my tongue out. Cold, soft as an angel’s kiss it melted in an instant, but the flavor remained, a deep, rich, chocolate, with a touch of peanut butter, such a treat! Again, I stuck my tongue out. It was strawberry, raspberry, and then a blueberry one had floated perfectly down and landed on my taste buds. Oh, I ran about. My tongue stuck out like a lance ready to spear its next victim, but that wasn’t enough, I needed more. I fell to my knees and shoved handfuls of snow into my mouth. Butter cream, caramel the flavors were different every time! “Megan Ryan, stop eating that snow!” I was caught again. I looked mortified. Face wet, red, and very cold. I was a sight. As she turned to go back in, I popped some more into my mouth and sighed. “Heaven!”
—Sue Midlock
Still seventeen’s retort distills one’s words like Shōchū— thought, intense, runs clear —K.H. Solomon
Are YOU in it?
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Follow Those Guidelines A writer’s willingness to work with an editor will show in how a manuscript is submitted. When submission guidelines are established, how well the writer follows those rules and how they are carried out, tell a potential editor or publisher how well they will be able to work with that writer. More than that, it is a distinct clue about how much a writer is willing to cooperate and work with them. For example, if the guidelines say not to use paperclips or staples and a submission arrives with a huge paperclip, this is a red flag to an editor. Chances are, after rough handling in the mails, the paper clip has bent the paper so badly that the pages jam the editor’s photocopier. Many editors may not make copies, but what if the story is so exciting that a group of judges want to sit around and discuss it? They certainly aren’t going to do that over one single copy. If an editor says he or she likes your story but says changes are required, your willingness to improve the story will show way before you’ve gotten your submission past the point of being read. It shows in how well you follow guidelines. If guidelines say not to fold your submission and you send a dozen pages folded in thirds and crammed into a number #10 envelope, your submission will either be returned unread or tossed. When a writer cannot follow directions, it simply says that the person is not serious about his or her work. The writer probably places little value on instructions and thinks the submission will be read anyway because it’s so just darned good, not realizing that the #10 won’t even be opened. This also shows a person who is too lackadaisical about keeping supplied with the proper materials of the trade. A similar theory about following directions holds true in certain therapeutic practices. In administering therapy, the therapist may unexpectedly ask a client to do something, like 30
move their chair a little to the side. This is a test of how well the client is willing follow directions. Whether or not they cooperate is a measure of how much they will submit to therapeutic techniques. Like the patient that repeatedly arrives for therapy but refuses to cooperate, you choose whether or not to follow submission instructions. In order to receive more acceptances than rejections, writers must be willing to play by the rules. So, follow directions and guidelines to the letter.
—Mary Deal
This book eases the communication lines between school and home. Teachers find this book easy to use, children find this book easy to understand and parents are provided with valuable information about their child every day. Teachers can easily report about their student with a series of check boxes, PECS symbols and places for notes. Teachers can quickly convey information about your child's daily school activities, lunch, homework, what to bring, mood, comments, etc. (368 pages!). Go to:
www.autismshopper.com
C’mon folks, what’re ya waiting for? Order your print copies online of this and/or past issues of the Mississippi Crow magazine for family and friends at: http://stores.lulu.com/RiverMuse All contributors to the Mississippi Crow Magazine will receive as payment, an e-book copy of the issue in which their work appears.
Sandee Lyles
Mississippi Crow Magazine
A serial killer terrorizes residents among the lush orchards and farmlands of California’s Sacramento River Delta. Sara Mason is a woman whose destiny has brought her back home to the Delta, but her decision may lead her down a path lined with danger and straight into the arms of a madman in this captivating thriller.
Author Mary Deal
Read more about River Bones and order paperback, hardcover, or eBook copies from her Web site: http://www.writeanygenre.com/mystery-novels.html Mary Deal's official Web site: http://www.WriteAnyGenre.com Visit the Novels Section for Rave Reviews of River Bones, a thriller, in paperback ISBN 0-595-48172-8 and hardcover ISBN 0-59571751-4. Author Mary Deal is a 2009 Pushcart Prize Nominee.
Are YOU in it?
31
While pondering the Band-Aid you offer me
Fate
A red line seethes along the edge of my thumb.
The many chilly nights are but predictions of things to come; the bitter cold of northern winters, the frost, the snow, the angry winds that blow, trying to rip you from the parental branch above. Seduced by the sweet summer’s swaying breezes that lull you to sleep. The sun’s chlorophyll dreams promise eternity as a gracious green leaf. Graced by the birds who chirp in your ears, your veins swelled with sweet senses of youth; But dry and brittle as the final throes of life has embedded, the battle is lost once the spring sap begins to flow.
If I were a vampire I’d drool over it. Cut that damned appendage down to a stump, make a nipple of it, and suck myself empty as a parched baby’s bottle. Instead I scrawl out this poem with it, ponder the Smurf Band-Aid you offer that I would rather bleed than wear, and consider drinking a glass of Merlot.
Have you ever felt like the last leaf on the tree? Torn between the nature of things, falling to your fate? Or struggling to climb to the branch trying to fling you off? Coincidence that your brilliant colors turn from green at the first frost?
The new buds appear to hasten your demise as you, at last, let go and flutter helplessly to the ground below to welcome you. To be a part of the endless circle of “ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,” compelling your journey from birth to death, and once more to enrich the earth for new life to come… For that is all part of God’s plan for eternal life, and why he sent His Son to pave the way for the rest of us…
—Pat Blue
—Shawn Nacona Stroud 32
Mississippi Crow Magazine