Escape, Part II -- by KittyCat

Chased blocks away from my home by dogs and people, I finally stretched out under a car on a cool garage floor and fell asleep. I woke up to the smell of fried chicken, and voices—a man and woman I learned were Charlie and Sharon. Hungry, I picked up and ate a line of chicken pieces that took me close to them. Trapped. Charlie pushed me into a pillow case while Sharon talked to a vet.

At his office, the vet said I didn’t have a chip. Wrong. I do, too. You don’t forget a day like when I got my chip—and it wasn’t one you eat, like I expected.

Kimberly Holt, a famous author who went to New York and got on TV was in a Hastings store near us signing a skinny brown dog book Mom wanted. When Mom called for information about the book signing, she learned a group called AKA was selling chips real cheap, and I could get one.

I never found out what was skinny—the dog or the book, but I did find out about the chips, and they weren’t food.

At Hastings, we were in line with all kinds of dogs—from horse-sized on heavy leads, to small breeds shivering in their owners’ arms. A woman beside Mom looked at the name tag on my kennel and laughed. “Kitty Cat?” Then she saw me inside. “Oh, it really is a cat!”

Right. A putting-on-the-dog event, I was the only cat there. It was awful. When the chip lady picked me up, people laughed cuz I was a cat, and I could see the big dogs betting on who’d catch me first if the lady dropped me. Using a scary-looking needle, the chip lady put one in my back. “Now if you’re ever lost,” she said, “with this micro-chip you’ll be home in no time.”

Back to the present and in the pillowcase, I felt about as happy as a chicken waiting to get its neck chopped. “Bring him in Monday for an exam,” the vet said. “Except for a handful of fur missing from his tail, he looks fine. His ears aren’t torn, and fur isn’t matted, so he hasn’t been on the lam for long.”

My new home, I learned, would be that garage I’d mistaken for a safe resting place. My food? Well, they didn’t buy cat food when Sharon insisted they’d need a litter pan. “We’ve needed a good mouser,” said Charlie.

They drove into the garage, let the door down, and then dumped me out of the pillowcase. Thirsty and starving, I headed for the door to the kitchen. “Charlie!” Sharon’s voice hit the air like a firecracker. “Get that cat. I’m not having an animal in my house.”

Charlie closed the screen door to block me, but in a minute, he did put water out. “What do you want to name her?” 

“Her?” I’m thinking Charlie’s a bird brain and Sharon’s meaner than the bitch that started the mess I’m in.

Closed in and feeling helpless, I did nothing for hours but stare at walls and wish for Mom and Dad.

Mom! -- Mom’s says something’s always better than nothing. I jumped up on garage shelves and knocked stuff down—jars, paint cans, plastic boxes that scattered stuff everywhere when lids came off. I’d already started yowling louder than Sharon’s screeches when the house door crashed open.

I scrammed as the garage door went up and Sharon screamed, “Get that cat outta here.”--Was after midnight when I got home. I could tell Mom had been crying. She told me how happy she was to see me, and cried some more. Go figure.

I’ll bet Sharon was glad she bought cat litter. I hear it’s good for cleaning up paint messes. And I’ll bet on Sunday Charlie bought some mouse traps.

(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson

Don't Shout at Me

Critique Acumen: a Heads-up for Considerate Critics is a presentation for writers. The subject: how to deliver and receive critiques. The following is a presentation handout.

Rules. Most critique groups, small and informal, don’t consider them necessary. But problems do arise. You can’t anticipate every divisive situation, but a set of printed guidelines can offset some of them.

• Set up a group email. Decide on a time for members to notify others before each meeting. To let members know how many manuscript copies they need to print for the meeting, tell if you will attend. 
• Some groups have rules pertaining to how many meetings a member can miss before that writer is dropped.
• For invitations to prospective members, consider this: announce by email you would like to invite a certain person to a meeting, and ask if there are objections. If none, ask the prospective member to visit a few times. After a few visits, have an email discussion about whether or not the group wants that person to be a permanent member. If so extend an invitation. If not, tactfully let him or her know.
• Establish guidelines with regard to your meeting routine and how you will handle members who constantly chatter or interrupt. Your group may need a sergeant at arms.
•  Adopt a policy for conducting business. Suggestions: schedule a special business meeting every month or so, or allow a specified amount of time for business matters  before critique starts, have email discussions so that meeting time is used to merely formalize decisions made through email.
• Disagreements will occur, and they can be divisive. In your printed guidelines, make it clear that courtesy rules, both in face-to-face meetings and in emails. In emails, all caps constitutes shouting—unprofessional, in fact it’s utterly rude.     

(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson

Better Than a Big Screen Production

  

What makes a “good read”...a “page turner?” It’s easier to recognize than describe. Joe Douglass Trent may or may not define it in a few words, but he knows how to write it. I’d recommend his novel, The King of Silk, because it contains elements I look for in a story, whether fiction or nonfiction.

It’s really a movie playing on the screen of my own mind—one so engrossing, that interruptions including blurring eyesight, a growling empty stomach, and muscles begging for a stretch annoy me.

I enjoy a setting where all my senses open to things I haven’t experienced. In the environs of fifteenth-century Venice, The King of Silk’s protagonist, Michael Patriate, amplifies sensations for me, because, suddenly dropped from the twenty-first century to a different time and place, his perspective never has a chance to become jaded from everyday happenings. I heard a galley’s oars clip the water in a steady, almost sleep-inducing rhythm. Later, I wondered how anyone slept in a ship’s foul-smelling cabin which packed passengers side-by-side on bedrolls, too narrow for stretching.

I like characters who look different from us, but not so much my left brain reminds me this is after all, fiction.  Joe’s imagination produced a colorful assortment—interesting, yet realistic. Great work, but at times I could have used a cast list for reference.

I want to be treated to analogies that enliven scenes: “A fly buzzed over Michael’s head in a loud lazy arc. In the fall the insects headed inside to escape the coming cold. Michael wondered where he could hide from the wrath of ....” It’s especially delicious when a second notice discovers poetic elements embedded in the metaphor. Listen to the soft, almost unstressed vowel combined with a sibilant (s-sound) in insects, inside, and escape; and the hard c (k-sound) in escape the coming cold.

In addition to uncommon words (the novel is peppered with them), I relish words used well: “The crew threw ropes to the dock workers, who pulled them tight and tied them off.  Michael admired the skill in their choreographed activity.”

 I enjoy the unexpected, like philosophical statements woven into an action novel. Joes sprinkles his story with tidbits that may find their way into quotation collections someday. For example, “’It is hard for us to let someone else care for us.’ Felix looked toward Enrico and sighed. ‘It forces us to admit that we aren’t in control as we think we should be.’”

Now you know a little of what I enjoyed in The King of Silk. Order a copy to discover what you look for in a “good read.” One thing we’ll agree on—it will be written by an author who has more than a story to tell. It will be crafted by a writer who, like Joe Trent, rewrites until he or she is certain the words have done their work.

Learn more about Joe Douglass Trent and links to information about him and his writing (including a sneak peak to the beginning of The King of Silk) at jdtrent.com  

(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson

Escape -- by KittyCat

I stayed so close to Mom yesterday, I'll bet it looked like she wore unmatched slippers--a little white one and a big black one shaped like a cat.

See, Saturday I think I lost half my nine lives--maybe eight of them. Who has time to count when you're barely holding onto whichever one you got?

The day started good with Dad and me sitting on the porch while he had coffee. When my buddy Chris joined him, I took a long drink so I could overspray where a tomcat left his logo around my place. By the time I reached the backyard, I was lost in deep thinking about how I was gonna kill the nervy tom. Two posts and the gate itself, and I'm out of pee.

Holy @#*@!! I took one leap to the fence and another over it. A dog looking a whole lot like laughing hyenas you see on TV was after me. She was bone lean, hungry, and for sure not laughing.

I felt the sting, and figured my tail got shortened, but I didn't have time to check it. By the time I jumped on top of a dumpster, she'd left my yard and caught up. Using furniture garbage piled beside the dumpster for a spring, she was on me again--almost. I made it to a tall wooden fence, took a few shaky steps along the top rail, and fell into rose bushes that stabbed me all over. At least I'd got away. Uh oh... Hello pit bull.

Whew! I was saved by the yellow-eyed bitch that wanted me for breakfast. She growled. The pit bull turned and threw its weight against the gate, snarling at the bitch. While the dogs growled at each other, I used the bushes for a shield and limped behind them to a space between a shed and the fence. Safe, but barely. I had to escape from that yard. 

I crept along the side of the shed, then eyed the distance to the fence that divided the lot between the dog's half and street side. With luck I could make it--dash to the doghouse, ("Killer" printed over its door) from its roof, to a planter on the fence, and over it. I just hoped if I fell again, it would be to the other side.

A car's brakes screeched as I ran across the street, through another yard to an alley. I spied a small water dish on a patio. No dog in sight, but the chain link fence, just like ours, looked fifty feet high. Somehow I climbed over it.

At the dish I drank and drank. A high-pitched bark interrupted my looking over the yard for a place to rest. I hissed at a terrier poised for a game of chase.

"Get outta here Cat," A man who appeared at the gate to the front yard, opened it. "Sit, Snuggles."

"Snuggles?" Any other time I'd have laughed. But this time, there was no time. Tired, and not paying attention, I walked into the path of a man with two chows on leads. One lunged at me, but its owner yanked it back. Across the street a homeowner had opened a garage door just enough to let in cool morning air--and one tired cat.

--to be continued

(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson

How to keep Writing Momentum

The following is part of the handouts for my presentation, Critique Acumen: a Heads-up for Considerate Critics.

Tips from Dynamic Opinions, a Critique Group

Keep Your Writing Flow

Imagine these scenarios:

×       Abuzz with creativity, you relish a rare writing experience—everything works. Your dilemma: too many metaphors are like too many cooks in the kitchen. But you’re feeling euphoric, and you cannot decide what to keep and what to cut.

×      You’re not positive about a word you thought you knew, but you’re on a roll, and don’t want to stop to look it up in a dictionary. If the word is not used correctly you’ve thought of a substitute phrase—a phrase you’re apt to forget if you don’t write it down immediately.

What do you do? Postpone making a decision.

Preserve your alternative phrases inside a pair of brackets, [ ] and keep on writing. For example, [Elaine’s and Jim’s house // Elaine and Jim’s house]. Later search through the document for a bracket. When the cursor stops at the bracket, you’ll remember to check a grammar guide, and keep only the correct “Elaine and Jim’s house.”

If you remain indecisive, you can leave the brackets in place to solicit your critique group’s  opinions. On the critique copy, flag the bracket areas by putting them in bold. Members of Dynamic Opinions know, without extra explanation, that [... // ...] requests a reader’s vote. Readers circle or underline their preference. Sometimes members cross through all choices, offering their own ideas.

An example of writing that uses brackets

 to postpone decisions and invite opinions on word choices

Brenda caught movement in her peripheral vision—black, [it skittered across the wooden chair seat at cockroach speed to disappear over the edge. // at cockroach speed it flashed across the wooden chair seat and disappeared.] In response to the horror, Brenda’s heart drummed against her ribs; her stomach convulsed with spewed acid and foaming gas. She scanned the carpet while she grabbed the lightweight chair and [flipped it to its side. She  // flipping it to its side, she] jerked the shoe from her right foot.

She eyed a creature centered on the chair’s underside, huddled motionless as if resigned to a fateful, deadly blow. Brenda slipped her loafer back on. She dumped pencils from a nearby jelly jar, eased the spider into it, and moved toward the patio door. Exquisite, she thought, studying [it // its articulated body] as she stepped outside. Releasing her captive to a planter of zinnias, Brenda’s fascination grew. In the outdoor sunlight the spider’s black body shimmered iridescent with [color // jewel tones // jewel toned color] --purple, cyan, and cobalt. She watched as the spider landed, turned toward her and crawled up a leaf as if to face and thank her. Brenda started in amazement. [Emerald green eyes! // Its eyes were like emeralds, glorious green emeralds!]

Briefly those living gems locked onto Brenda’s eyes and pierced an inner consciousness. Her decision to call the exterminator [suddenly moved // careened] from her mind’s area of lucid logic to murky rumination: does the damage from spraying for household pests outweigh its benefits? She simply did not know.

(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson

             

Mary Lou Cheatham

In June, Barnes and Noble Booksellers hosted a book signing that featured 2012’s Frontiers in Writing conference presenters. I visited with authors Joe Trent and Mary Lou Cheatham, two of the event’s out-of-town speakers.

I was curious about Mary Lou Cheatham’s Secret Promise, because she worked on it during the short time she lived in Amarillo. Yesterday, I finally read a copy. Typical of the romance genre, the protagonist is lovely, and her romantic interest is handsome and athletic. But Mary Lou's inspirational story about a young woman in 1907 proves that creating steamy sex scenes is not a prerequisite to writing a romantic novel. As expected, it finishes with the required happy ending.

The deep South inspired the setting for Mary Lou’s Christian romance story as well as a cookbook she authored with Paul Elliot. The Collard Patch includes information about growing and harvesting the amazing cholesterol-lowering vegetable.

Learn more about Mary Lou Cheatham on Facebook, and two blogs: http://doyouknowhowgodlovesyou.blogspot.com and http://collardpatch.blogspot.com.

Happy Cat -- by KittyCat

When Mom and Aunt Pen talk on the phone, it doesn’t sound like they say anything that couldn’t wait til Aunt Pen gets home from vacation. In fact, it sounds like stuff that could wait if she never got home. Knowing Mom will ask, I listen to learn how Snookie, my tabby friend, is doing. Yesterday I got the best news. Snook’s coming home tomorrow. It’s been a lonesome summer without her.

There was more to do last year when she was gone.

For one thing, the schnoodle, Vondelle, just down the alley from us was still a puppy. She flunked puppy school twice. She went crazy barking and chasing anything she got her sights on, and a jillion things she simply dreamed up.

For sport, I’d jump up on the brick wall between her back and front yard. She’d come bounding across the yard, tearing up the new fescue sod worth a ton of money. On top of that I heard it cost three hundred dollars a month to keep it watered. New lawns don’t do so good in a drought.  Ha, ha—Vondelle’s backyard is just a big patch of dirt now. There were paw prints along her side of the wall where she’d stretch hoping we’d get nose to nose. Of course that never happened.

Another fun thing last summer was to watch a neighbor clean her black Mercedes. She’d get every bug and bird speck off it, make the whole car shiny, and then go in the house. I liked to step up on the back—I was careful not to scratch it—and walk over the top, slide down the windshield, take a few steps to the front bumper, jump off and run home. The car looked real cool—kinda like those back-to-front stripes kids put on their cars. But my paw prints, spaced just so looked fancier.

I never got caught, but both Mom and the neighbor figured it was me. Feeling guilty, Mom’s gonna put money in the neighbor’s bank. I’ll bet the neighbor wished all the Julian Blvd. folks had cats that liked decorating cars. This year, a white SUV replaced the black Mercedes. It wouldn’t matter if I wanted to climb on it, cuz it’s mostly in its garage.

Snook will notice how the cicadas are noisier this year. Maybe there’s more of them. I heard they lay eggs that stay under the grass for seven years. There’s gonna be a whole lot less seven years from now, cuz I’ve eaten so many I got sick a few times. Wings still wet, they come crawling up through the ground and with grass so thin, they’re easy to spot. I pounce. They don’t even get to find out if their pretty wings work.

I wonder if Snookie is as excited to get home as I am to see her. I’ve missed her so much, I’ll never again call her Snook the Snob. –Well, at least if she doesn’t act like one.

(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson