Writers can often be their worst enemies. I’m not sure if it’s particularly true of writers or just a truth of all humans, but it seems writers can often shut doors of opportunity without trying. I’ve been contemplating this ever since I sat down to talk to an editor about several of his tactics for keeping down the slush pile. One of my favorite of his rules actually took me aback when I first heard it. He said that he had a rule that if a writer responded negatively or unprofessionally to one of his rejection emails they were permanently banned from ever being published.

Harsh? Possibly, but the genius of it is that writers need to constantly remember they are professionals. They’re presenting themselves as someone who should be payed for their work and that means they should act like it. Unfortunately writers that I’ve seen in social media seem to swing to some kind of extreme when it comes to “professionalism.”

If you didn’t already know I’m launching a magazine. It’s actually part of my MFA internship in publishing. As a result, I’ve put out a call for submissions, which has gotten a lot of great responses, but there’s been a couple negative ones, specifically about the $3 reading fee and the fact that we’re not paying authors.

Now, there’s a lot of sense in what the people who are being negative are saying and I’m not going to argue their logic or passions. I can understand them. The problem I have is with their chosen method of discussing those negative responses. Like the editor I discussed earlier I’ve already placed a couple people on the permanently banned list. Why? Because they were unprofessional. Their responses were reactionary rather than being thought provoking. If they had changed their tone the conversation may have been very different.

It’s difficult, because I know writers are creative people which means they’re prone to ego, passion, and hot-headedness. That said, all writers (myself included) need to work to not be *that* guy. Who knows what bridge you may be burning… especially when the business plan for my magazine is to eventually to pay writers.

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by Tabitha Grace Smith

Kisses rarely happened like this. Raquel knew this logically and empirically, but standing out in the rain, her hair slicked back and her fingertips freezing, she realized she didn’t care what she knew.

Thomas’ kiss took her by surprise; they had been walking, looking for a bus to take them back to the El train. They had been at a concert, not realizing that the bus they wanted to take back home stopped long before the concert had. Chicago was like that.

An hour after leaving the bar Raquel was near tears. It was dark; the city had turned from its familiar vistas of closed stores and large warehouses into a quiet suburban street. Raquel had stopped under a bus post and tried calling the CTA number on her cell. The overly cheery automated voice and complex menu system only had her more frustrated. It wanted to know where Raquel was and damn, if she knew where she was she wouldn’t need help. She was tempted to throw her cell phone to the ground in utter defeat, but she had already replaced it once and one hundred and seventy dollars didn’t grow on trees. Even if it did, there weren’t many trees in Chicago.

Near tears she shoved the offending object deep into her purse to ward off the moisture that was everywhere. Thomas suddenly took her face in his hands and tilted it upwards. The touch was gentle and firm all at once. Her brain instantly screamed a thousand messages at once (about 90% of them being what the…?) and somehow the air had been sucked out of her body. Thomas had never been the boyfriend. He’d been the fellow student, the co-worker, the best friend and the safe guy. The guy you go to concerts with and eat deep-dish pizza at Gino’s. He was the guy that stands in the rain with you without complaining. Thomas was that guy! Not the kissing in the rain guy!

Despite the icy cold that twisted around her wet socks and nipped at her toes and despite the continued, oppressive rain Raquel melted into Thomas’ kiss. In an instant the hundreds of voices stopped, they washed away with her tears and all she could feel was Thomas. He must have felt her relax and took it as an open invitation; he slipped his hands down and around her body and pulled her into him. They fit together, as if fashioned that way by a master craftsman. Raquel wrapped her arms around his neck and breathed in his cologne. It made her eyes roll back slightly with the sheer, overwhelming power of its scent. She pressed into Thomas with an automatic need to feel him everywhere.

Gone were the mysterious suburban streets, the rain, and the tears that had threatened to spill over. In their place was Thomas. He kissed as if he could feel her heart sing in his ears. He tasted like cherries and, on further exploration, the rum drink he had earlier at the bar. She sampled and tasted his mouth gently, letting him lead her on the journey. Wrapping fingers in his short, dark hair, she found herself needing to breathe, but not wanting to let go. There were quiet murmurs of pleasure that escaped both of their mouths and a short break as they collectively took a breath before plunging back into the euphoria of the kiss.

A yellow cab drove up slowly and there was a small whirl as the automatic window slid down. “You kids lost?” A voice called from the cab. The voice paused. Realizing he may not have been heard, he called out louder. “Need a ride?”

Raquel’s eyes blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream. She had heard the cab drive up. Somewhere in the back of her mind a voice had said, hey idiot there’s a cab, but she didn’t break free from the kiss to investigate the noise. Now, with his second shout, the cab driver had fully awakened her and Thomas.

Thomas broke free slowly, touched his finger to her lips and had then turned and informed the cab driver they would like a ride. Raquel slid into the cab almost reluctantly and visibly cringed when the door closed. Thomas slid his hand over hers and squeezed it causing ripples of warm, euphoria to flood through her body again. She relaxed against the seat as Thomas kissed her again.

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Here’s the assignment: Your two-page story must be written in the THIRD PERSON, must be written in the PRESENT TENSE, and must be written entirely IN ACTION—what can be SEEN. No dialog. No inner thoughts. You are a camera.

Sitting in a large, LA Metro bus are three African-American girls. They sit towards the back of the bus, obvious to any of the other seats. Sharonda, is a bit more buxom than her counterparts, but still cute. She’s got a scrap piece of ribbon tied under her shoulder-length dark hair and flourished with a bow at the top of her head. She has a tight white t-shirt, short dark blue mini-skirt, black nylons that are shredded on purpose and then bright pink thigh-high pink boots. She fiddles with one of the giant bracelets on her arm and looks off to the side.

Then Sharonda starts picking at the shredded nylons, tying together some of the looser strands with the air of a delicate craftsman. She is thus engrossed when the bus stops. There’s a hiss as the hydraulic doors open and Jerry, a white 20something jumps on.

Jerry greets her as he stops in front of Sharonda, putting his butt in the face of her friend Lily. Jerry slips sunglasses on top of his head.

Sharonda blinks in response to his greeting. Her fingers hesitating over her thigh and she doesn’t respond for at least five seconds. Then the fingers fall into her lap, tightly interlaced together. Instead of greeting she merely inquires how he’s doing with a thin smile. He shrugs as he sits beside her she shifts slightly away. Her fingers wriggle out of the intertwinedness and she starts picking at her nylons again.

Jerry leans in, whispering in her ear. Sharonda doesn’t even look up. “No.” Her voice is flat, short and she continues tying. He attempts to say something again, but she ignores his questions.

It’s two months later, Sharonda is wearing a dark blue sweater, picking at dark black nylons without any holes. Once again she sits in the back of the rumbling orange Metra bus. She brushes back a stray hair, tucking it back into the silver ribbon that ties her hair off of her face.

Looking out the bus window Sharonda stares for a long time. The seats of the bus are nearly all empty, a couple of elderly folks dot the front of the bus. She furrows her eyebrows and squints out the window of the bus, then she looks at the LED sign at the front of the bus. Checking her purse she digs out a small Metra map and consults it.
With a small nod she pushes it back in the bag and picks up a single white rose and a thick envelop from the seat beside her. There’s a large, garishly decorated “sorry” handwritten on the envelop.

Sharonda sighs as she looks out the window again. The city gives away to rolling green hills covered with tiny gray headstones. An imposing gray stonewall is topped off with rings of barbwire. A large white sign, or at least it was probably supposed to be white, officially says Angel’s Cemetery. Unofficially the spray-painted parts of the sign mark it as Piru territory.

Sharonda picks up her rose and an overly photocopied bulletin with Jeremy Jones in a cursive font right above a series of dates. She stands by the back door of the bus, looking at the bulletin with a sigh. The bus doors hiss as the bus stops across from the cemetery.

Stepping off the bus Sharonda waits for it to pass. She stares at the bus as it leaves. Then steps off the curb and she heads towards the dark iron gates of Angel’s Cemetery.

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Out from Under the Bed
by Tabitha Grace Smith

There’s nothing about Tola that screams of her importance. China white skin gleams except for a long dark smudge along her leg. Zosia touches the synthetic curls with a finger and lets her eyes lose focus. Tola’s eyes are blue, bright and unblinking. It was a while since Tola had been removed from her sacred cardboard box under the bed.

Holy, bright light jars Tola as she looks at the older woman who holds her.Tola is young and old at the same time; she tries to push out that thought from her head. Her eyes are always open. She’s seen everything. Never blinking, never shielding and never unseeing. Tola, for the first time, notices her nakedness.

Zosia clicks a tongue and touches Tola’s hand. Only Zosia knows Tola’s story. Sighing Zosia licks a thumb and runs it along the smudge on Tola’s porcelain skin. The dirt responds to the slight moisture.

Tola would shiver, but being a doll, she can’t.

“We need to get you a dress,” Zosia says softly.

Her voice is warm, but Tola can hear the slight breaks in it. The last time Tola had seen Zosia she had been young, tiny and moved like a chased rabbit. Tola thinks Zosia’s gray hair and crow printed eyes are merely curtain dressings on the soul. Behind the bespectacled eyes Tola can still see the little girl who snuck into her mother’s room and pulled Tola out. Zosia had been very young and there was longing in her touch that Tola could feel. Zosia’s mother returned and Tola had been put hurriedly back in place and not brought out again.

Tola knew Beata had died. The musty smell of the house sings the news. Beata believed the house should be clean and placed in order. And the sounds of the house tell Tola cleaning had not happened in a long time.

Zosia sets Tola on the hard, oak desk. Tola watches, again unblinking, as a shiny silver needle weaves in and out of a lacy material. Tola stands at attention, the amount of colors in the room astounding the senses. Reds, blues, whites all mix together and play off each other like a field of children. The laughter of their movement fills Tola with brightness.

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I never know what I’m going to write when I get a topic. Though I often try to puzzle it out before I start. Once fingertips are on keys it just comes (or doesn’t). But I often have the “jump to the end” mentality that tries to anticipate where my writing will go. It’s as if I’m a kid again opting to switch to the last chapter to find out what happens.

Yet, I never can. Very often in the middle of my final journey to the end of a story I realize that I knew nothing. My characters know everything. I’m, once again, a doofus.

So when handed a writing assignment in class I endeavor not to skip to the end. Yet, I couldn’t help myself. In the lull of conversations over dinner I find myself wondering. “What do I do with a drunken sailor?”

Only a writer, I imagine, has these thoughts. I know from experience most of the folks in my immediate life can’t put themselves in the eyes of a best friend, let alone a character in another historical time period, gender and culture.

But here I sit, fingers posed over keys trying to get into the mind of the imaginary Sanchez, the lazy and drunken ship’s cook for Cortez’ trip to Eastern Mexico. I’m trying to decide on voice and style and my own distance from the character. I’m trying to decide what a drunken ship’s cook in 1519 would say about Cortez deciding to scuttle the ships and burn them. Trying to decide what a drunken person would do in such a situation at all is a bit of a stretch.

What does one do with a drunken sailor? I’m not sure, but I can’t wait to find out.

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Talking about space and routine is kind of like asking what makes the sea come in and out. There’s something about telling me that the moon’s pull that causes the sea levels to change that takes the magic out of writing. And it truly is a magical experience. My routine is: I never realize that I’m writing until it’s done. It’s almost like the siren’s call that causes me to write. I could write for ten minutes, ten hours or even a full day and not realize that the world has passed me by. I write every day, it’s just never the same thing. I write on Twitter, I write about my cats, I write long emails, I write blogs, I write because I can’t “not write”.

My writing space is here. In the moment and now. I write wherever I am. I feel comfortable writing in the middle of chaos or at home where two cats vy for my attention. I’ve written cross legged in the middle of the floor at a convention. I’ve written sitting on a rock by the ocean. One of my current favorite audio drama scripts I wrote in the middle of a large thanksgiving dinner. My space is my laptop and a warm cat. I get teased often that my laptop is glued to my body, but is an extension of my being. It doesn’t have to be my own laptop, though the words start easier on my own. It’s been a close friend for years and it knows all of my secrets. One of my co-workers once told a fellow co-worker, “all your problems today have been solved by God, a computer and Tabz.” And really, that’s what it’s all about.

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It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, but really it’s more of a real life comedy. Here I am in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania attending a intense week of writer’s bootcamp. That would be fine if it wasn’t for the fact that I am in the middle of snow and ice and freezing temperatures. Thankfully I am not alone in my distress. My roommate for the 10 days and another fellow beginner are all from California.

So we trudge through the snow, wear big coats and funny earmuffs and get laughed at for thinking the weather is cold (apparently it’s not THAT cold from what everyone says), but my idea of cold at this present juncture is 58. Thankfully I was somewhat prepared after going to Moody. I know what cold is. But I never got used to it. I am just not an extreme temperature kind of gal.

Other than that, so far so good. Can’t wait to see what the rest of the week holds since yesterday was kind of a “intro” day. And I never do good with “lets get everyone on the same page” kind of days.

~ Tabz, the frozen one.

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(another writing assignment – this time based on my reading of Stephen King’s book “On Writing” in which, on pages 34-35 he says: “…I’m glad. I am, when you stop to think of it, a member of a fairly select group: the final handful of American novelists who learned to read and write before they learned to eat a daily helping of video b.s. This might not be important. On the other hand, if you’re just starting out as a writer, you could do worse than strip your television’s electric plug-wire, wrap a spike around it, and then stick it back into the wall. See what blows and how far.”)

Dear Mr. Stephen King,

While I admire your writing and your success (as twisted as your stories themselves may be) and couldn’t imagine anyone denying your claims to fame, I do feel it necessary to balk at your suggestion that writers should not watch television (though, I will again admit how funny the twisted suggestion was).

It is also true that I spent a good deal of my early years attached to the TV (though my adoration was severely limited by my parents’ insistence that it be regulated to an hour a day). In fact, my parents enjoy regaling audiences (made up of whomever is listening) with stories of how they could never get my attention whilst the television was on. It was only when they stepped between myself and the TV that they could, in fact, break the seeming mystical hold the glowing box had.

And yet, I can not tell you the untold wonders that awaited me in television. True, it was not TV alone that inspired me to be a writer. I read almost as veraciously as I watched TV (emptying out the local library and having to move on to the college town’s library). And my family and friends also encouraged the budding imagination I had to such lengths that I never thought of “not writing”. But it was in television that my voice grew bold. It was because of television I found an audience. And it was because of TV that I realized that being a writer wasn’t as fruitless as some naysayers would have lead me to believe.

I remember the first TV shows I fell horribly in love with – Sesame Street, Sledge Hammer, MacGuyver and others. They shaped some of my favorite things in the world (mainly humor and smarts). It was in the clever, subtle writing that I learned the difference between “Near” and “Far” (thanks again Grover). I was inspired to sing, to laugh and to play. From Sledge Hammer I learned a love of the absurd. From MacGuyver that superheroes should be as smart as they are strong (or even more so).

Then came my favorite shows of the 90s – Darkwing Duck (again absurd, witty comedy), Anamaniacs (so smart and funny it’s a surprise someone hasn’t brought it back), and then Due South, Pretender and Homicide. My own writing had become serious. After winning a couple of awards and prizes for my writing I decided to get serious (or as serious as a 12 year old can get). By the time I entered college I had finished a full-length novel, been published more times than I can remember and started my own Sherlock Holmes fan email newsletter (that I edited) and sent out to 200 folks from around the world (which was unheard of in the late 90s).

When I hit college and my TV watching took a nose dive, but as soon as I was home I caught up on all my favorite shows (my parents would record them for me). Movies were also a favorite. Both of them only fueled my imagination – not squished it.

Then came work, which was creative but more in the graphic design area than writing. I decided to find some outlet (professionally) for my writing and became an “intern” in social media. Soon I was writing again and my desire for great TV increased.

Finding my current TV demigod (Joss Whedon) in my 20s only fueled the fire. Whedon’s stories were complex but incredibly simple. With the backdrop of vampires, space ships and singing super villains Whedon is able to tell the simplest of stories about the human soul. Yet they are utterly and intensely profound. Whedon’s writing (and that of the other TV writers) sparked my re-entry into the world of fiction (even though I never really left). From watching his shows I started into the world of podcasting, I launched a successful audio drama group and I scaled the heights and depth of my own human experience. I wrote fanfic, poems, letters, articles, audio drama scripts, essays and so mcuh more — all because of TV.

Perhaps you are discussing more of the mindless, time-suck that TV can become. Since I never have been one to just sit and watch TV I am probably not the general reader you pictured reading your novel. In fact, I’ve written this entire “letter” to you while watching TV. My laptop is always close at hand and I can always find myself able to complete some kind of task or writing even in the midst of a great drama.

In short Mr. King, don’t think of me as being too upset with your suggestion of ripping out the TV. Rather, this is a contrary viewpoint that can extol the great virtues of programs. When paired with an imagination that thrives on stories with heart, humor and beauty – they can be the catalyst for greatness, not the soul-crushing opiate that you may assume.

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[From my "writer's journal" for grad school - Tabz]

I’m not a fan of rules. I’ve found that to be true when I read how to books. My back goes up when they tell me “you must”. I’m not entirely sure why this is true. Maybe it’s a rebellious nature, curled out of nothing. I was usually a rule-keeper when I was growing up. I kept rules, I whistle-blew on folks who didn’t keep rules and I was very happy about it. But not anymore.

For example, I’m fairly sure the good folks at Wilkes want me to keep an actual notebook. Something that feels like paper and tangible. Not, the hard cold light of a virtual document in my laptop. Truth is though — my laptop IS my notebook. It’s an old friend that follows me everywhere. I’m rarely without it. I’ve just realized I hate this font.

Now, font change. Good. This one fits better.

Anyways, so my observance is that I hate rules. I hate the idea that I “must” do something in order to be a great writer. Perhaps that’s why I fail at Grammar and sometimes at spelling. I don’t want the rules. I spent the first 20 years of my life learning them – it’s time to break them. Or so my subconscious thinks.

I had a professor in undergrad who would always say, “learn the rules — then you can break them.” Of course, for the longest time I thought that meant “know them”. I knew the rule of thirds in photography (that framing subjects off to the left or right of a photo made it more beautiful). But what I didn’t realize is my professor never said “know”. He said “learn”. So.. here I am to learn. Taking that student position again when I read my books. Being the thirsty well trying to soak up information. Once I’ve “learned” then I can break. I think my psyche can handle that.

But I’m still not keeping an actual journal.

My laptop was a huge purchase for me. I bought it with a bonus from my first full-time job. I felt grown up and scared all at the same time. You drop enough cash on a Mac and you’ll understand. Yet, the Tardis (as my laptop is named) has been a constant companion. I’ve written stories, scripts, letters, missives and more on here. But more than that my laptop stores my life. Photos, emails, graphics I’ve saved, MP3s, scraps of documents and PDFs that spell out the past three years. And believe me, that’s a lot of junk.

I don’t just write — I live on this laptop. It’s the first thing I touch when I wake up (unless of course I’m touching my cats to move them away from my face) and it’s usually the last thing I touch before bed. My laptop sings me to sleep and is there in the small hours of the night. It’s my confident friend, it’s my lifeline to far away places, and a gentle friend itself. It entertains and informs, guards and protects, connects and releases.

Of course, I must name my things because they are more than things. My laptop, my iPod, my camera, My phone… all of them have carried names of places that live in the imagination. The Tardis, Doctor Who’s time and space device is known for being bigger on the inside than it is on the outside — so is my laptop. It’s such a thin black thing, it can deceive you into thinking little of it. Yet, you open it and instantly you can be talking to my friend Emma — in England. Or my friend Elle in Singapore. You can see photos of me in Las Vegas or send a PowerPoint I designed to Australia.

There’s nothing I can’t do with this laptop. For the past two years it’s been the only thing I needed to work. Every morning I’d roll over, pick up my laptop and start my job as a Social Media Expert at a PR firm.

When the Tardis was finally sick and in need of repairs it was hard to let it go. I dropped it in the hands of a man who looked too young to have my baby. Like an anxious parent I waited and called to check on it.

“Hello, is my laptop ready?” I would say.
“What’s your number ma’am?” The chipper voice would say on the other end of the line. How dare she be so chipper? Doesn’t she know my baby is sick?

After giving my number they’d say I’d have to wait. After all they said it might take a week. And so I waited. It was like Christmas morning to have the Tardis back.

I had a replacement computer while he was gone, but it wasn’t home. It was like sleeping in a Motel Six and dreaming of home. But once the Tardis returned – life was better.

So, why am I not going to write in a normal notebook? I’m stubborn and horribly in love with this laptop.

Now, I’m heading to bed.

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[As many of you know I'm going to start grad school in January, one of the suggestions that my writing book I'm reading is to practice free flow writing... this idea struck me so we're going with it. It's kind of autobiographical fiction... Hope you enjoy!- Tabz]

My dad could always make me feel beautiful. Growing up I’d wear a dress or a skirt and twirl in it (I believed strongly in the power of twirly skirts when I was little), he’d smile and tell me I looked like a princess. And I felt it. Growing up I never had a lot of self-image problems, despite being overweight. Every so often it’d hit me, like a case of the stomach flu. Some kids would make fun of me, but for the most part I ignored it. Most of that strong self-image was built at home, but some of it came from a little fellow sixth grader I went to camp with. In reality, we were barely out of 5th grade, but it was the first year we could go to camp so we all felt older than we were. Sadly, being the youngest meant sleeping in cabins that were far away from the bathrooms (just another proof in my small mind that being older was ALWAYS better). This fellow bunk mate would stand in front of her bunk and get dressed quickly. You barely even saw her naked she was so fast!

“I’m part of a swim team.” She told me. “You have to dress with everyone else, and you have to be fast.”

I remember my mind trying to process that idea. Up to then nakedness had been secretive. Something you wouldn’t dare share with anyone. It took awhile to process it. But every day, she was ready to go to meet up with the rest of our fellow campers before everyone else.

“After all, you don’t have anything we haven’t seen before.” If I had been a bit older I might have realized she was parroting an adult. But to me, it had sounded like a new truth that no one else knew.

I can’t remember if I dressed in the same way, especially since I know for a fact in high school I did not. But it was the confidence she had that stuck with me. I can tell you little of that first camping experience beyond that moment, but I remember it like it was yesterday.

Yet, I’ve learned since, confidence isn’t feeling. It took a long time for someone beyond my dad to make me feel beautiful. But it’s not something you notice. It’s kind of like driving without brakes. It’s not till you want to stop and think about it that you really realize.

Then came my junior year of college, and our giant Jr/Sr banquet. Now, you have to understand, looking pretty and dressing up are not on the top of my to do list. At all. But I was excited for the banquet. Even after the mess I had with my first ever boyfriend and I “breaking up”. Instead, my friend Kevin (who I had a giant crush on) agreed to take me.

I bought a dress, it wasn’t the world’s fanciest dress. It was a whole lot of green. But it was pretty. Girls on my floor did my hair and I even put on makeup (shock I know). And I walked down the stairs to where Kevin was waiting.

And there it was, that moment where you just feel it. His mouth dropped open, like the Monopoly banker had just appeared and told him that the stack of 500 bills were now considered legal tender. Like I was the fairy tale princess meeting her prince for the first time.

And man did it feel good.

Most women will tell you that is the feeling they miss most of all when they miss things. There’s just a moment in time where a guy can make you feel extremely beautiful. And you don’t have to be wearing a pretty dress or be made up. It’s just the way they look at you. And it’s not even a dirty look. In it’s most potent state it’s almost an innocent look. A look that says, “I can’t believe I have the privilege of looking at you.”

There’s a warmth in that look. It’s a look that any man could give you. It doesn’t have to be a potential lover. I’ve felt that same warm, beautiful glow from an elderly man at a church, or a little boy, or a passing stranger. You can get it out of a wolf whistle or the legendary two syllable “damn”.

There’s a flush that comes with it. Almost as if you can’t believe it yourself. If your heart could leap out of your chest, it would. But your heart knows that really is a gross image and wouldn’t risk losing that feeling. You feel floaty, like if all of the sudden every inch of you is imbued with the power to just be pretty. When you twirl your hair, it’s not a nervous habit anymore – it’s pretty. When you lick your lips — it’s pretty. When you lose a shoe on the steps.. it’s not awkward or stupid — it’s pretty.

It’s amazing how someone else’s view of you can change your own view. Like they held up a circus mirror to you. Yet it’s a beautiful feeling when you feel beautiful.

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