Humble Fiction Cafe

Missing Maps and Getting Lost in Fictional Worlds

2016-02-12T18:41:00.004-06:00

My map is missing.
I've looked. I've gone through my desk, looked inside books, pulled out loose papers.
Nothing.
And it's not a simple thing to replace, because it was the extant copy.

Years ago, for a NaNoWriMo project, I wrote an adventure novel called "The Life and Many Deaths of Sir Hobbleton of Piffle." It's a whimsical story about a knight who is cursed to die a thousand deaths. It's the death of a coward described by Shakespeare in Julius Caesar. The only way to break the curse is to live and die in the most heroic way possible; self-sacrifice.
It's a tricky thing for a coward to practice sacrifice.
Tricky indeed.
Sir Hobbleton takes place in a mythical land I dreamed up, but I didn't have a full idea of it's complete geography. I also didn't have a full idea of the story, because I came to an end well before the fifty-thousand word limit required for NaNo novels.
I was done. I was spent.
And I didn't know where else to go with the novel.

Enter my daughter Hope, who might have been eight or nine at the time. She listened to me read parts of the story out loud, and I told her I was dedicating this novel to her as a birthday present. At some point early on, I casually asked Hope to draw a map of Piffle that I might include in the story. When the day came that I was unable to find another way of padding my word count, (I already tried giving one character a three-word name) Hope presented the map to me, her eyes brightly lit with imagination.
It was remarkable.
It wasn't just the map. She also gave me a full explanation of the territories and myths associated with each little burg and village.
It gave me the additional information I needed to complete my word count, since I now had an Appendix of locations, and the stories behind them.
The geographic dynamics of a new world lay open before me, a world that fit not only into my hand,but now made sense in my mind.
I loved that map.
It was one of the most cherished gifts I've ever received.

And now it's gone.

I've looked for it on many occasions through the years. I've ripped through stacks of folders, flipped through binders, and proceed to create disarray in the middle of my office floor. The result is always the same: I'm surrounded by newly found clutter, and very dissapointed that I didn't find the map.
I think I folded it up and put it in a book for safe keeping, and that particular book may have inadvertently ended up in a garage sale, or in a donation box.
It saddens me greatly.

There were other stories on that map, other fanciful places, and so much left to be discovered.
It's like losing a wedding ring, or your birth certificate.
Come to think of it, that map was the birth certificate for Sir Hobbleton's world.

If you happen to have picked up a book from a garage sale in Humble Texas, or bought a used book at Goodwill, or Half-Priced Books, and inside you found a folded map, colored with pencils and crayons, and scribbled out on several sections of printer paper, maybe you can take a picture and send it too me.
It would be so wonderful to find it again.

I really want to edit and have Sir Hobbleton ready for publication before Hope graduates from High School. Several birthdays have already come and gone. She's a junior this year, with only three months to go, and if I know anything for certain, it's that her senior year will be gone in a heartbeat.

I suppose I can finish editing the story, and it'll be a great way of returning the gift to her, but I've really had trouble getting back into the Land of Piffle. It's like I need a guide.
A direction.
A map.

When you're lost, and can't find your way in a strange land, what better way is there of navigating through bogs of uncertainty, and avenues of procrastination, than a wonderful, carefully folded, full-color map?
Maybe I should look for it again.

Just one more time.

Book Review - A Cup of Comfort for Dog Lovers II by Colleen Sell

2009-11-29T16:14:00.000-06:00

by Sheryl Tuttle

Check out my book review of A Cup of Comfort for Dog Lovers II by Colleen Sell, WordProverb: Book Review - A Cup of Comfort for Dog Lovers II by Colleen Sell. Our very own Humble Fiction Cafe writer, Susan H. Miller, contributed a moving story not to be missed about a sassy Dachshund named Baron von Muttleheimer.

Short Story: Body by Dorlana Vann

2009-10-15T12:26:00.014-06:00

Body
by Dorlana Vann

I watched as a guy in a dark suit dug up Beatrice Beaumont Virgil, April 5, 1965 – August 19, 1998. Funeral flowers still fresh, dirt still moist, Until we meet again, her epitaph.

I stood in the shadows and dared to watch a moment longer before deciding I would just make note of his car license on my way out. If I had to say, I would guess his height as six feet and give him a generous build of medium. And I would only use this information if there were questions. Otherwise, I’d rather my secret after-hours visits stayed my secret.

As I turned to leave, the moody clouds drifted, allowing the full moon to tattle. I limped away as fast as I could, but my bad knee had started acting up again. I could only hope I was far enough to seem a ghost. Just as I began to breathe, I heard the man shout, “Hey you... stop!”

A gun fired; the bullet ricocheted off the tombstone next to me. I stopped.

“Now get over here,” he said. “Slowly.”

As I approached the gravesite, I could see that he had dug about halfway down into the grave. He held a shovel in his right hand and a gun in his left. “You’re not going to run are you?” he asked. His appearance seemed rather ordinary— until our eyes met. I’m not easily spooked, but his keen stare alarmed the hair on the back of my neck.

“No,” I said.

He tucked the gun in his pants and then threw me the shovel. “Start digging.”

I dropped the shovel down into the thigh-deep hole and grunted as I followed it inside.

“What are you doing out here this time of night?” he said as he sat down and wiped his brow.

“I’m the groundskeeper.”

“That’s strange. I did my homework; there are no employees at night.”

“I’m not supposed to be here either.” The shovel sank into the dirt easily enough, but my muscles complained when I started shoveling it out of the hole.
“Hmm,” he said. “So, what are you doing here?”

“It’s peaceful at night.”

“So you work here... and come here to hang out? Kind of an eerie guy. But I suppose the right kind... if one has to exhume a body.”

I kept digging, and the man kept watching until the shovel caused a clunking noise.

“All right,” he said. He sat with his legs dangling over the side of the hole. “Now start digging on the sides so we can open my treasure chest.”

When I had finished my task, the man jumped in beside me. It took quite a few hard pushes before we finally had the lid all the way open.

I generally have to be content with a mental image of my residents—unless their loved ones are kind enough to leave me a picture—I couldn’t help but comb my hair with my fingers to tidy up a bit before I met her.

Her long blonde hair flowed gracefully over her petite shoulders. Rosy cheeks and ruby lips highlighted powdered fair skin. “Beautiful.”

POW! I felt the deafening discharge from my fingers to my toes. Beatrice received a bullet hole in the middle of her forehead. I had stopped breathing.
“Hmm,” the grave robber said. “Grab her arms.”

“What?”

It took him aiming his weapon at me before I comprehended the instructions.
“Grab her arms. I’ll get her feet.”

Heavier than she looked, the first attempts at getting her out of the grave were grotesque. I wanted to lay her back in her bed, fold her arms back across her body... smooth her hair.

Finally, we had her in a somewhat normal position lying in the grass next to her assumed final resting place.

My dilated eyes absorbed a sudden explosion of light. When I regained my vision, I realized the man was snapping pictures.

I couldn’t withhold my curiosity a moment longer. It had fused together with fear and sympathy for Beatrice and formed a knot in the pit of my stomach. “I do realize that this is none of my business, and I really shouldn’t be asking you anything, but...”

“I don’t off chicks,” he said. His chest heaved in and out, just like mine.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s why I’m doing this. That was your question... right?”

I nodded.

He pulled a flask out of his jacket, put it to his mouth, and took a drink. Surprisingly, he handed it to me. As the unexpected bland taste of the pure water quenched my dry tongue, he spoke, “Some asshole hired me to kill a woman. This is just what I do when I’m put in the situation.”

I swallowed hard. The liquid felt like a tank going down my throat. The man standing beside me murdered people for money. And I was the creepy one. “So you’re going to pretend that Beatrice is the woman you were supposed to kill?”

“Beatrice,” he said and stared down at her. “They don’t want them at their doorstep. All I need is proof. I did a lot of obituary searching to find her. Same facial features, hair color, age.”

“What about the real girl?”

“She’s on a plane as we move our lips.”

We stood there for a moment: the atmosphere thick with the smell of death and the moonlight animating tree shadows across Beatrice’s face.

“So, why did someone want her dead?” I asked.

“Don’t know... didn’t ask.”

I nodded.

“Let’s get her back down,” he said.

The chore of replacing her didn’t take as long as excavating her had, but I hated our method. We just dropped her in.

We climbed in after and put her back in the casket. Except for the bullet hole and the dirt in her hair, she looked like she did before we disturbed her. I said my goodbyes and shut the lid.

When I looked up at the assassin, his jaw was tense and his eyes and gun were focused on me. He said, “You know, I have to kill you now.”

I stopped to inhale the earthy air, to scratch my nose, and to think about my new home with Beatrice Virgil’s address. Until we meet again, my epitaph. “Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

The End

Body is one of the short stories from the dichotomy/opposites anthology Split -by The Humble Fiction Cafe.
Read the second half of this story here: Hell's Kitchen

Dorlana's website: http://www.dorlanavann.com/

Dorlana's blog: Supernatural Fairy Tales

Happy Halloween!

Episode 85, In Which Donna Chrissa Again Tilts at Twittermills

2009-09-30T11:25:00.002-06:00

Manuscripts are eating holes in my peaceful afternoon, like moths in an untended closet. My brother requested that I finish a short story begun several years ago (and that I restrain my language to an 8th grade level--not sure what that would be) and there is always The Novel About The Dog or a poem or the pulp-influenced short story...a nebulous galaxy of work whose gravitational pull has tossed me unexpectedly straight into the 'net, where time approximates work without every actually becoming work. Am I, therefore, being entertained?

And what about you? Are you reading this at a time when you could be reading a novel (or watching TV or training for the Iditarod)? Will the next several minutes at your computer turn into hours down a YouTube/blogosphere/e-mail rabbit hole in which images and ideas flash past and you grow indignant, happy, worried, relieved with every click? Are you entertained or informed or unable to tell whether there might be a difference?

We've discussed New Media somewhat in our group and I'm continually struck by the way we struggle for control of platform and content, both in terms of creation and in use. I'm particularly leery of the ideas promulgated by people who believe that interactivity (e.g. blogs, twitter feeds) is necessary. Really? Do you automatically check the website of potential authors the way you might for plumbers or business contacts? Do you buy the books or read the available chapters and move on? Have you ever purchased a self-published book? Does the unedited blog post or book bother you? What do you 'expect' from the authors you follow and (bonus question) why do you expect anything other than a good story? Have you every read a novel on your computer?

Perhaps I should alter my reading material from cranky essays on the decline of standards and thought and switch to more cheerful fare this afternoon, before I earn the title Resident Humbug. On the other hand, one always felt Statler and Waldorf had the most fun. :)

-- Chrissa

September 11, 2001

2009-09-07T14:19:00.002-06:00

It is the time of the year again when we are reminded of that awful day eight years ago that shook all of us old enough to remember to the absolute core.

Even without mention on the television news, "Where They Are Now" articles in magazines and the tragic, heart-wrenching pictures, I would not - could not - forget.

We all remember exactly where we were and what we were doing when the plane hit the first tower. I was driving to work with a colleague and we were laughing about our failed attempt to try a new "short-cut" to downtown Houston.

The announcement broke into our music program, and we both became silent, shocked and saddened by the horrible "accident." It never entered either of our minds that it was anything but a terrible tragedy.

It was on the elevator in our office building that someone told us the second tower had just been struck. That was when a cold chill ran through my entire body. Because I knew now that this was no random happening.

Then came United Flight 93.

As the rest of the day wore on, and the news worstened, I was reminded of the events surrounding John F. Kennedy's assasination from the fatal bullets to the capture of the shooter to his death by an obscure nightclub owner.

Numbness. The T.V. set in the conference room was one, and the entire staff was drawn to it again and again. Finally, it felt like my mind could take in no more horror.

The next few days - the ones in which no sleek, proud jets soared gracefully over our beautiful America - were surreal. Being the wife of a career Air Force flight engineer-turned commerical pilot instructor, flying was an integrel part of my life. I found myself staring into the still blue skies with the feeling that time had somehow become suspended.

Everybody was touched by 9/11. Everybody. I lost a cousin-by-marriage I had never met. Many people suffered far closer pain.

It was a little over two years later when I found myself both at Ground Zero, and the place in Somerset County, Pennsylvania where 93 went down.

Just before Christmas, I was visiting New York and ventured over to the site in blustery cold winds. Severe damage of some neighboring buildings was still evident, like the scars of someone gravely injured but alive. A crude hole had been carved out of the fence surrounding the spot where the twin towers had stood. Inside was a huge gaping hole that bore little semblance to the sights and sounds of that day. Inside an adjacent building were scale models of the proposed memorial. The building itself was full of busy New Yorkers at work. Life had to go on! I applaud those people who continued on with their lives.

It was the next fall when my husband and I were visiting his brother who lived in Somerset County. Of course we wanted to go to the site of Flight 93's crash. As if it could make sense of things when Ground Zero could not.

Again, the wind blew mercilessly but it did not dull the beauty of the place. Soft, green rolling hills were surrounded by the oranges and browns of the turning leaves. The site itself could be seen only from a distance, as befitted the sacred cemetary that it is.

The temporary "mounument" was only a flat space with several stone benches, bearing the names of those who died that September day, facing the final resting place of the brave people on that airplane. The benches silently lure you to sit and remember. The many people who were there that day with us spoke in reverent terms, as if they were in church.

There is a large bulletin board behind the benches which is filled on both sides with every type of memorabilia imaginable. But not one stroke of graffiti. There was military squadron patches, fraternity symbols, photos, notes, crude drawings by school children, poems, religious cards. Some feel this display was tacky. It will be gone when the new, lofty permanent momument is dedicated on the 10th anniversary of 9/11.

But I like it the way it was. Closure is an overworked word. And who am I, who had only the slightest connection to anybody who died that day, to deserve "closure."

It's just that there, on that breezy hill with the cluttered bulletin board, the silent benches and the peaceful view, I finally feel like some sense that something grand happened that day among the horror.

Sue Miller

An Author Event Not to be Missed!

2009-09-04T17:32:00.007-06:00

You are invited!

Members of Humble Fiction Cafe' will be at Good Books in the Woods on Saturday, September 19, from 12:00-3:00 p.m. We hope you will join us for author readings, giveaways, refreshments and more. Plus, we will be signing and selling copies of our books.

Did I mention giveaways??? Hope to see you there!

Split by Humble Fiction Cafe

Come into a world of love-struck fish and super-intelligent bugs; of the ordinary and bizarre; of then and now; of this world and the next; of people you know and folks you hope never to meet. These twenty-seven original stories and poems have but one thing in common: they all show two halves of an idea, two sides of a coin. They show what happens when a concept becomes SPLIT.

Various authors will be on hand to discuss their story contributions and sign copies of the book.

Death by Dorlana Vann

Death is a two-in-one paranormal novel (Jaclyn's Ghost and Passage to Mesentia) which represent the Death Card in Tease Publication's Dark Tarot Series.

Jaclyn's Ghost: After recovering from the shock of seeing her own dead body (still dressed to kill from last night's party), fashion model Jaclyn Jade discovers she has a choice. If she finds the reason she fell short of grace, she will be able to redeem herself and go to Heaven. Since she was murdered, she hopes her killer will lead to the truth behind her fate. With the help of a psychic who can speak to the dead and the ghost of an intriguing man from the roaring twenties, her search for answers initiates a quirky journey of self-discovery. Personalities, eras, and worlds collide as the mismatched trio race to solve the mystery of Jaclyn's death.

Passage to Mesentia: Wade and Bella's lives have been turned upside down since the murder of Bella's archaeologist parents and the arrival of a mysterious stranger named Ben. They decide to form a partnership with Ben in order to search for an ancient Egyptian artifact that they hope will reveal the secret to her parents' deaths. Tension mounts when Ben's supernatural identity and romantically tragic love story begins to lure Bella towards him. Will Wade and Bella's love endure, or will Bella be drawn in by the dangerous quest and find Ben too intense to resist?

A Cup of Comfort for Dog Lovers II
HFC contributing author, Susan H. Miller

Everyone loves a good dog story. In this moving collection, readers will enjoy fifty great dog stories that will have them laughing and crying as they enjoy this tender and touching volume with their own dogs at their feet. Following the success of the original edition, readers will be thrilled with this follow-up edition. In it, they will find new stories that are just waiting to be discovered and adored—from a new puppy bringing renewed energy into his elderly owner’s home to a walk down memory lane for a visit with a dog who made her owner’s childhood an adventure. This story collection will bring love, joy, and a sense of companionship into every reader’s heart.

Pdf versions of the following are available.

Bring Me to Life by Theresa Laws

In certain places, the veil between the living world and the other side is thin, and time means nothing. Hattie has waited for seventy years to be brought to life and set the past straight. Darren fins himself a reluctant partner in her resurrection.

More Than a Lifetime by Theresa Laws

All her life, Brooke has felt out of place, unlucky with men and empty inside except for her very real fear of water. The only place she feels at home is in Old Sacramento, where her love/hate relationship with the river puzzles her.

When she meets the mysterious Evan, her mind begins to reveal images and intimate encounters that are so much more than dreams or imagination. Could they be memories? Is it possible that both she and Evan have lived before? Her journey to find the truth about herself takes her underground and back in time to a lover who has waited more than a lifetime.

Reading the book or seeing the movie first?

2009-08-10T21:12:00.009-06:00

The Time Traveler’s Wife is coming out and I really want to see the movie. However, as an avid reader, I also want to read the book. My concern is which I should do first: see the movie or read the book. For me doing both is not a problem. The problem is while I prefer to have read the book before the movie; it makes me enjoy the movie less.

I love reading. To me, what makes a good story is when I see the movie play out in my head as I devour each word. I cast characters. I envision locations. I do everything that movie producers do, but in my head. Then, when I go to see the movie I always try to prepare myself. One, I know that the story, in plot and dialogue, will not be told exactly as in the book. Two, the characters will most definitely not look as I have envisioned them. Three, the scenes or moments that I think are critical will not be the same ones the writers and directors see as critical and therefore included in the film. And so on, and so on…

But even with all of my preparations the best reaction I have had to date is, “It wasn’t the fiasco I was expecting (Twilight, Stephenie Meyer).” The worst reaction I have had was, “That was such a horrible adaptation it makes me not want to read the writer again (Needful Things, Stephen King)." But there are some adaptations that differ from the books on which they are based but are still very good. The example for this is the Trueblood series on HBO based on the Southern Vampire series or Sookie Stackhouse novels by Charlaine Harris.

After watching the first season I proceeded to buy and read all of the books she has written. While my feelings about the books actually fluctuate (some I love and some I read just to get to the next one) so far, I do love the TV show better.

And maybe that’s the secret. Part of the problem of adapting a novel into a movie is that you have to force the story into something that’s told in roughly 110 minutes. Therefore many of the small subtleties are left out or butchered. Whereas with television, you have at least twelve to thirteen sixty-minute episodes over which to tell the story on HBO and other pay channels; on network TV you usually have a minimum of twenty episodes.

Well, I guess the verdict is when the adaptation is a movie, watch the movie first to minimize disappointment. If the adaptation is a television series, reading the book first is safe.

Sharolyn

Steampunk

2009-07-31T14:34:00.006-06:00

HFC member - Dorlana Vann

Have you heard of steampunk? I was familiar with the term but really didn’t know much about it. Steampunk is a subgenre of fantasy and science fiction that is set in the steam powered era (19th century) but includes today’s technology, as if it were invented back in Victorian days. I just realized that a new television show I’m watching, Warehouse 13, is actually steampunk inspired. And beyond fiction, there is a huge steampunk world of fashion, music, etc.

What has brought this intriguing genre to my attention is Gypsy Thornton’s short story, Cages. It is a steampunk retelling of Grimm's fairy tale, Jorinde and Joringel. I will be posting the story, plus a podcast, on my blog, Supernatural Fairy Tales, in 5 parts starting Aug. 1, 2009.

If you get a chance, stop by and read or listen to her short story. Also, Gypsy Thornton interviewed me for her blog, Fairy Tales News.

Upcoming Book Reviews and Contest!

2009-07-12T22:31:00.002-06:00

by Sheryl Tuttle

To help celebrate the success of two of our Humble Fiction Cafe writers, I will be giving away their newly published books on my blog, WordProverb. To enter to win the free books, just post a comment on the following blog post. It's that easy!

Upcoming Book Reviews and Contest!

Please visit and enter. You may be the lucky winner of a great new book! Good luck!

Posted using ShareThis

A Woman Hanging in the Waves

2009-06-27T19:06:00.003-06:00

We shall begin this episode of Heat Advisory Theatre with a brief word from our sponsors, SunSpot Artists International. Please adjust your a/c at this time and remove sensitive plants, pets, and children from direct southern exposure...

I capsize in time, ego overblown.
I hang over the invisible,
Muddy obscure years beneath.
I would have been no captain
On those drowned low seas.
Wife, worshipper, or dead
Willing, wise, or dumb;
My longest upward stare
Scattered by the bright sun silt
That sifts in darkness below
A woman hanging in the waves.

Well now, I am slightly dizzy and seeing little dots right now! What a perfect evocation of too much heat from our sponsors. Shall we get on with the blogisode?

Yep, probably shouldn't have begun this post under the influence of too much sun and too much caffeine. Now that the summer is here in all its brazen glory, though, I'm finding that my writing has taken on a different cast. I don't want to linger in fairy lands, but I am willing to pull out and gut last year's NaNo novel. The novel takes place both planetside and in a space station--neither setting based on any familiar landscapes (at least not right here right now landscapes).

It seems that my fantasy stories are somehow tied more closely to where I live or at least how I experience where I live, to the extent that being at least partially comfortable outdoors is necessary to being able to write them. Part of that is that details of color and smell and feel are borrowed from personal experience. This heat crushes my senses against my own skin, pushing my eyelids down against glare and filling my nose with a hot blankness. I walk outside and I am stunned.

Couple the sensory deprivation of summer with the increasing number of times phrases will flash through my thoughts while I'm driving on the freeway, and you have a seasonal change in the way that I write. Never would have guessed that this would be the case, but I would be very interested to know if others experience a similar link between seasons or time of day and subject matter or type of story.

-- Chrissa

2009-06-22T19:02:00.000-06:00

MAKING A “HOME” FOR OURSELVES

Where is home? Do you think of it as where you live now, or is it where you grew up? Most of us have a warm, nostalgic feeling for that place where we were raised and consider it a somewhat different version of “home.”
My childhood home was a small town in Kansas. Picture perfect. Complete with town square and band stand, ice cream socials and Fourth of July parades.
I knew every crack in the sidewalks, all the peoples’ faces and everyone’s cars, what churches they attended, who hung out at which beer joint and which doctor they saw. Everyone knew everyone’s business. It was a great place to grow up and I couldn’t wait to leave. When I did, I was excited, lonesome and lost. Every face I saw reminded me of someone I knew from “home.” Now, I’m thoroughly convinced there are only about fifteen or twenty basic “faces.”
Small towns are great if you can stand the cliques and the slow pace, but beneath the surface, there’s plenty going on and lots of stories to be told.
Humble Fiction Café has a new project. Our second anthology of short stories is now in its first stages of development. While the finished product is months away, we’re excited about it. The working title is “Ravel” and all the stories will have a common thread – the town of Moot and its many characters.
What will we learn about the people and the town? Whose secrets will be revealed? Where are the cracks? Even we don’t know yet, but that’s the fun of it – making it up as we go along…

ESCAPE

Nadia glanced once again in her rear view mirror. There was only the horizon framed on either side by tight canyon walls. Only five minutes ago, she had been able to see Moot small and getting smaller as she drove West away from town.
The highway was narrow, with sweeping curves, but the car was easy to handle. The solid rock walls came nearly to the pavement’s edge giving her a feeling of shooting through a tunnel. Her long, slender fingers curved around the steering wheel a little tighter. She had never cared for tight spaces. The sooner through the canyon, the better.
When she glanced in the mirror again, she blinked and had to look twice. Impossible, but there they were, the unmistakable red and blue flashing lights of a police car.
“It can’t be,” she thought. “It hasn’t been long enough. No one could possibly have found out so soon.”
Her foot pressed the accelerator. Beneath the hood, the car’s engine moved a little faster and the Maserati surged ahead…

Theresa Laws

Can You Stand The Pressure?

2009-06-07T21:25:00.003-06:00

Amid my excitement about the publication of a book containing a story of mine, I was honored to be asked to speak at a yearly event the local library holds.

"Now, is public speaking a problem for you," the head librarian asked.

A fair question. I was able to reply quite honestly that the fear of making a fool of myself never troubles me anymore.

You see, some years back, I had an epiphany in an elevator of a high-rise office building in Houston, Texas.

I had just walked into the building, dressed in the most Conservative of gray suits when my ankle gave way, and I sprawled on the floor of the foyer like a beached whale, skirt hiked up in a most un-ladylike manner. Two businessmen got to witness the whole sorry scene. They hauled me to my feet, and, as luck would have it, entered the same elevator as I did. I waited for the floor to swallow me; I waited for my face to turn red. But neither of these things happened.

And suddenly I realized that this was not the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to me.Probably wasn't even in the top ten. It wasn't as bad as when I tripped and fell over a bale of hay at a county fair, taking a small Asian woman out on my way down; and it certainly wasn't as bad as when I inadvertently typed an "S" where the "W" should have been in a letter to a Mr. Whittaker.

Maybe it was just a part of growing older: that little things just don't bother me that much anymore. Or maybe it's because of George Bush,senior. After he threw up on his plate at that state dinner, I figure nobody could ever top that in terms of embarassing things to do. I owe him a debt of gratitude!
By the way, the book is "A Cup of Comfort for Dog Lovers II" and my story is "The Dashchund That (Almost) Conquered the World."

Susan H. Miller

What Makes a Successful Writers Group?

2009-06-05T08:21:00.006-06:00

by Sheryl Tuttle

Do you ever wonder what makes a writers group tick? Why some groups come together and stick, while others dissolve over time?

One of the keys to a successful group is communication. For example, with the Humble Fiction Café (HFC), we have easy, frequent, and honest communication between our members.

Easy communication

One email sends to the whole group
Yahoo group for uploading files; this is where we post stories, chapters, or poems for critique, as well as a place to share other information

Frequent communication

Weekly meetings; approximately every other week the meetings are open to the public
Regular email; emails are used for communications between meetings

Honest communication

Written and/or verbal critique is offered highlighting strengths and weaknesses
Critique is offered on the written piece, not the writer, and is intended to help the writer improve in the craft

Recently, members of HFC participated in an interview by John E. Murray, III with Story Institute. In the interview, we discuss the dynamics of our group and what it is we believe makes it work so well. We also talk about some of our projects, including the writing of Split. You can listen to the interview in its entirety at the Story Institute Rambling Verser – Episode 16.

What are some other characteristics of a good writers group? How and where do you go about finding one? Please share your thoughts in the comments.

New Post on Endings

2009-05-26T09:16:00.003-06:00

by Sheryl Tuttle

Please visit my novel blog, Hope and Faith, where I've posted Six Common Types Endings, the information gleaned from an endings class given by Linda Lindsey of HFC. It was an outstanding class full of valuable insight, too good not to share!

Check Out An Award-Winning Horror Story by HFC Member Kelli D. Meyer!

2009-04-06T12:57:00.005-06:00

HFC Member Kelli D. Meyer has added her award-winning horror story, "Terrible Twos", to her blog/website at www.kellidmeyer.com, and she invites you to stop by and take a look. "Terrible Twos" is a super-creepy story about zombies, toddlers, and a mother's love, with twists you won't see coming. And while you're there, don't forget to subscribe; Kelli posts new stories on a regular basis, and that way you won't miss one!

What I Still Don't Know In March of 2009

2009-03-26T10:59:00.004-06:00

....As much as I'd like to think about computers. That's what I still don't know.

This past Monday morning, I wrote about my trip down nostalgia lane in Charleston, S.C., but neglected to sign my name. Which leaves the Humble Fiction Cafe readers in the dark.

Fortunately, my fellow writers are kind enough to gently nudge me. Since this has happened twice in a row, however, I think the nudge might turn into an outright kick the next time.

But a bigger concern has arisen. What if, when I reach the Pearly Gates, there is a computer competency test included on the checklist before one can be admitted? After all, I already know that God has us filed by our social security numbers. (I found this out many years ago while trying to obtain a copy of the baptismal certificate of one my children who had been baptised at a military chapel.)

If computer expertise does indeed count heavily on the final score, all's I can say is I'd beeter ramp up my clothing the naked, visiting the imprisioned thing.

Oh, this is Susan H. Miller writing.

Things That Change And Things That Never Do

2009-03-23T12:09:00.003-06:00

If you've never been to Charleston, South Carolina, you must put it on your "bucket list." If you have the least bit of interest in history. In haunted places. Battles. The ocean. Gracious living. Tradition.

I had the good fortune to live in a small town twenty minutes away from the city proper about t22 years ago. So, it seemed to make sense for my husband and me to detour a bit on our way home to Texas from North Carolina, where we were visiting our youngest daughter and her family.

We, of course had to check out where we used to live. This actually involved two stops, as we had moved into a larger house about a year before we left with the expectation of making it our permanent home after my husband's retirement from the Air Force. But it didn't turn out that way. We had to go with the city that held the most promising job - and that was Houston, Texas.

Our lazy, lovely little town was nearly unrecognizable! Instead of uninterrupted avenues of pine trees, we were assaulted with car washes, fast food restaurants, auto parts stores. The verdict one house number one: good. The current owners were keeping it up nicely, had a new fence and had painted the wood part an acceptable color.

We moved on to the second house. Not so good here. Parts of the wood rail on the long front porch were missing, making the house's front look somewhat like a face whose mouth was missing some teeth.

It was a relief to move on to Charleston, proper. On the way, we encountered new roads, some "depressed" areas that looked even worse than when we had lived there before. A few high-rises.

But Charleston, itself? Still the same, wonderfully proud lady!

It was no surprise to us. After all, wasn't this the city that painted the spire of St. Michael's (or is it St. Philip's? I can never keep that straight) black during the revolutionary war to camouflage it from the Brits?

Even the devastation inflicted by Hugo several years back barely scarred Charleston's centuries old homes. Hurricanes were nothing new, and there were huge bolts that went through houses from front to back to strengthen them for just such an event.

And the open market is still there, just as it was in Rhett Butler's day. Now, where there used to be a plethora of homegrown produce and hand-crafted tools, there is largely merchandise seen at any flea market throughout the country.

But you can still get some of the good stuff, if you look hard enough. One example of this is the hand-made baskets woven on site by the Gullah-descendant woman who learned this craft from their mothers, who had in turn learned it from their mothers. What makes them so special is that the designs on the baskets are not created dye, but rather by the weaving itself. So no two are ever alike. I was given one as a parting gift when I left South Carolina years ago, and it is still proudly in evidence in my present home.

Now, I am back to the area where medical research makes amazing strides on a regular basis, and the hub of space travel touches the stars every day. I'm glad there are wonderful changes going on in this world.

But I'm also happy to know I can always be sure to find a few places where I can count on things staying the same.

The Proof is in the Pudding

2009-03-19T21:24:00.001-06:00

by Sheryl Tuttle

The other day I found myself sitting on a bench with my youngest daughter’s BFF (Best Friend Forever). We were watching my daughter take a karate lesson, which gave the BFF and me plenty of time to talk. First we talked about karate. The BFF asked about the progression of the karate belt colors, getting tips placed on the belts, and preparing for belt tests. Then, we talked about gymnastics and other activities. Eventually, I found myself telling BFF that you can do anything you want if you just practice, and that the only way to get better with something IS to practice.

Hmm. Sounds like good advice for a 40-something year old wanna-be writer too. Actually, good advice for a writer at any age.

You may be familiar with National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), where participating authors from all over write a 50,000-word novel in one month. For me last November, it translated into a lot of writing, much more than my usual daily quota. It provided an opportunity for a lot of writing practice.

Shortly after NaNoWriMo, I wrote a short story that had been a plague to me for some time. Calling the story a struggle is like calling a tiger tame, but nevertheless, I finally got the story down and finished. Fairly pleased with the story, I put it out for feedback.

As always, I received some great suggestions from my writers’ group friends on ways to improve the story. But the most memorable comment was from my mom. She simply said that she liked the story very much, and she could see my improvement from when I first started writing.

Wow. It felt so good to hear that my ability at this craft of writing was improving!

It’s true in writing, as in everything else of life, the more we do something – the more we practice – the better we get. After a full month of dedicated writing on my novel, the short story I completed afterwards WAS better than my previous work. The proof is in the pudding.

Armed with this knowledge, I look forward to writing more and better stories. Keep practicing!

When is your story not your story?

2009-03-12T18:54:00.003-06:00

by Kelli D. Meyer

When you can't post it on your own web site, that's when.

I am extremely annoyed by an "accepted fact" in the modern world of publishing. It's a fact that publishers won't buy your work as unpublished if it's already appeared online in any form, including on your own blog. It doesn't matter whether ten people read it or ten thousand. Once it's been online, they'll only buy it as a reprint, if they'll buy it at all.

In my opinion, this is a case of throwing the baby out with the bathwater. Publishers have made this decision to protect themselves from buying a story that's already been read by a large percentage of its potential audience. It's a decision that makes sense in some very specific cases. If you're Dean Koontz or Stephen King, and you post a novel on your web site for a year or so, the number of people who will buy that novel when it comes out in hardback may diminish. (Although even this is debatable.) In those cases, the publisher might be justified in paying a lower -- a.k.a. reprint -- rate for the work.

But what if you're not Koontz or King? What if you're me, or a member of my writing group, or just about any unknown writer in the world? How many people are really going to seek out and read stories we post on our own blogs or web sites? Enough to damage the story's money-earning potential if it's published? I don't think so.

So the result of this ridiculous rule is that writers have to leave their best stories hidden in file folders in order to have any hope of getting them published. Meanwhile, they're trying to establish a following, a readership, without sharing their best work.

My suggestion to publishers, should any of you out there be interested, is to change the "no reprints" rule to exclude publishing or posting on the authors' own web sites or blogs. Let authors show their stories off. Let readers discover new authors. Once they do, they'll spend more money on your books and magazines. Everybody wins.

The Lost Art of the Sail Makers

2009-03-02T02:03:00.005-06:00

Our featured writer for this week is HFC founding member Gary Denton, who's many interest include digital music, producing short films, and novel writing. He is currently editing Good Hope, a 2007 National Novel Writing Month project that he hopes to forge into a publishable manuscript by July.

Last September, hurricane Ike, the third most destructive storm to make landfall in US history, devoured Galveston Island. Ike’s twelve foot storm surge raised the iron-hulled sailing ship Elissa, moored at pier 21 on the northwest side of the island, nearly level with the concrete sidewalk that leads to her visitor’s center. 110 mph winds tore at her for twelve hours, but never managed to find a grip on her lines or mast. However, one of her most important sails, the fore lower topsail, (ironically referred to as the “storm sail”) was shredded like a formal dress shirt ripped apart by a pack of snarling wild dogs.

Nearly five months later, Sail maker Jim Brink has traveled from San Diego to Galveston to create a new storm sail for Elissa. Since there is no available building large enough to act as a sail loft in Galveston, this skilled craftsman, who has designed and constructed sails for movies such as Pirates of the Caribbean, is using the grand ballroom of the Ashton Villa, a historic 1859 residence, to spread out the required 630 square feet of sailcloth.

I have to admit, after all the research I did on Elissa’s history for my novel Good Hope, including walking her decks and interviewing her crew, it never occurred to me that there are only six people in the nation with the skills necessary to refit her sails. That’s right- six. Skills that were once considered essential to our seafaring heritage are now almost lost to antiquity.

So what does this have to do with writing, you ask.

Let me tie it in for you.

Recently, a friend and fellow member of the Humble Fiction Café sold a short story. All of the members of the HFC feel a sense of kinship when someone makes a sale because many of us contribute to the early development of these stories with suggestions, critiques and editing. So, we were somewhat surprised when the publisher returned the story with some proposed corrections for “grammatical and punctuation errors.” Now here’s the rub. Not only were the suggested corrections wrong, the publisher’s letter proposing the changes contained punctuation and grammar flaws. Any English major could see it.

Now don’t get me wrong, most of the HFC members are not qualified, professional editors- but the writer who submitted the story is. She is an editor for a local Houston magazine and has seventeen years experience in the industry. We sometimes refer to her as the “Comma Queen” for her ability to turn our drafts into red-streaked pages that look like they came from the floor of a Victorian barber shop.
Our author was ready to pull her submission if the publisher insisted on printing it with their changes. She prevailed, and I’m glad to say that everything turned out for the best, but the incident makes me wonder about the current literary culture and the vanishing trade of the copy-editor.

Right now in Japan, the largest growing market for literature is called the “cell phone novel.” These stories are not only read on cell phones, they are written on cell phones, and mostly by amateurs who use text shortcuts and questionable grammar. Even with glaring flaws that tradition publishers would reject after reading the first paragraph, the demand for cell phone novels is booming. Granted- they’re free, so there isn’t a huge demand for them to contain expertly polished prose, but consider this: three of 2007’s top five bestselling Japanese novels were written on cell phones.
The closest thing America has to this type of market is fan fiction, and while it still carries the stigma of being written by hacks and amateurs, the number of Harry Potter inspired stories at Fanfiction.net is nearly 400,000, and the demand continues. I won’t even speculate on how long it will take for Twilight inspired fan fiction to surpass that total - okay, maybe fifteen minutes, but again, most of these free-to-read short stories, novels and novellas are full of punctuation, grammatical, and stylistic errors.
So how are publishing companies responding to this trend?
They are laying off editors by the hundreds.
After all, if the public is willing to pay for novels that editor’s at publishing companies previously rejected, like the current bestseller Still Alice, then why retain those services? I’m sure Still Alice contains easy to read sentences, and is relatively free of punctuation errors, but the point is, author Lisa Genova had to edit the novel herself, or in much the same way that Jim Brink was hired to shape the sails of Elissa, maybe Ms. Genova hired a free-lance editor to help shape the prose of her manuscript.

Fast-forward.

Imagine a celebrated fiction writer in the year 2150 who desires to create a late twentieth century hardbound copy of his current masterpiece - just for nostalgia. The plot, characters and story may be novel for the time, as the word implies, but where will he find someone with the skills to make his prose flow from the pages like a refreshing stream? Who will help edit the text so his readers won’t be yanked out of his beautifully created world by jarring sentence constructions and gross misspellings? And how many practitioners of that ancient skill will be left in the world? Twenty? A dozen? Six?

I’m afraid it will be a lost art by then. My editor friend and those like her may become tomorrow’s sail makers.

I only hope somewhere in that rapidly approaching future, the Elissa will still be sailing, and when someone in the Galveston Historical Foundation gift shop hands visitors a copy of my book, it won’t be titled Gud Hop.

Are there any real Geeks left anymore?

2009-02-23T21:12:00.005-06:00

The movie Fanboys opened in theaters February 6th. Now, it didn’t break any box office records; and most people have probably not even heard of it. The reason I talk about it is because the movie was made. There have been lots of movies about geeks in the past, but this one is like a celebration of all that is geekdom.

I remember when being a geek was something you tried to hide from your friends and relatives. As one that spent most of high school in the outcast protection program I remember passing others that were living a double life like me in the halls and secretly signaling to one another about Star Trek, or Quantum Leap, Comics or Japanese Anime. Yes, it was a difficult existence, but at least you could trust your fellow geeks to be authentic.

Now that fanboys has become an actual word listed in the Merriam-Webster dictionary, what does it mean? Are geeks, nerds, and the other formerly socially unaccepted finding a sort of acceptance through their ostracism? I know that this makes life easier for the younger generation of geeks that follow me; and I definitely want them to thrive and continue. But, when you get an officially recognized name in Webster’s and a Movie, is that the beginning of the end.

Lynn

Hell's Kitchen - Short Story from Split

2009-02-11T07:48:00.010-06:00

Short story excerpt from the dichotomy/opposites anthology Split -by The Humble Fiction Cafe.

Hot of Hot/Cold

Hell’s Kitchen

by Dorlana Vann

John knew the old saying: Revenge is a dish best served cold. But he had to disagree. Because this time, his revenge would be cooked and served sizzling hot.

Being the cook for the Beaumont family had definitely been hell, and it seemed as if he had already worked for them an eternity. When he saw his murderer, standing there on the auction block, another saying seemed right on: What goes around comes around.

New arrivals went straight to the auction house. Both demon and H.S.L. (Human Soul Laborers) bought souls for a variety of reasons — the juicier the more they cost. John’s assassin was already up to a stellar price.

The red demon auctioneer had the whole house animated with energy. He was saying, “This soul here has no moral backbone. He killed over fifty men. He’s a thief, a cheater, and a murderer. Do I hear seventy-five....”

When John held up his auction paddle, his assassin looked him in the eyes. John remembered the last time their eyes met. The next thing he knew, he was in hell, standing exactly where this guy stood now. John had committed minor sins in comparison to murder, so buying him to eat would have been like buying a sickly, skinny cow. Not worth eating.

John had been purchased as an H.S.L. by one of the more prestigious demon families. Some souls were bought for pulling wagons, for building roads, for housewives, for... dinner. He understood how lucky he had been that he knew how to cook. His duties included buying groceries at the auction house.

He didn’t win the bid on his murderer just for pleasure; he would also make a fine meal. The Beaumonts planned to have a dinner party for twenty guests. John purchased two other plump souls as well.

When John arrived back at his kitchen, he put the three men into his tall, refrigerated cage. They needed to be fresh. Much longer out in the heat, and they would have been tough. He himself had developed skin close to the texture of leather. He hadn’t lived in Hell long enough to figure it all out, but he reckoned all the demons started out looking the way the human souls did, but in time they adapted to the atmosphere, causing their crimson, rutted skin.
Once John shut the cage, the hit man said, “Funny meeting you here.”

“So, you do remember me.”

“I never forget a face.”

“Of someone you killed or just in general?” John reached in a drawer and pulled out his knife sharpener. He wanted to give this guy the full treatment. At that moment, if he had ever wondered before, he recognized one of the major reasons for his descent. He kept deep hatred in his heart. Hmmm. He began to grind the knife across the sharpener.

His murderer said, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m about to make dinner.”

“I mean, in the hole. I never characterized you for a sinner.”

“We all have our sins. It’s the people who realize it too late that end up down here.”

At this, the hit man nodded his head. “So, what are you making?”

The two other men in the cage looked downright terrified. John looked down at his knife. No matter what kind of show he put on for his murderer, this wouldn’t be any easier than any other meal.

He inhaled and then nodded his head over to the man standing to the right of the murderer.

“Leg of Sam,” he said. He glanced at the next guy, “Barbecued ribs.” He looked directly into the hit man’s eyes. “And roasted pig.”

“You don’t have to be so nasty. Just making conversation.”

“Perhaps we should save the small talk for the guests.” Meals had always just stood in the cage awaiting their fate. Once in awhile one would sing or one would cry, but never did he actually have to talk to one before he prepared it.

“For what it’s worth,” his murderer said. “I apologize. I was just doing my job.”

John thought about this for a moment. He wondered if he would have repented if given more time. If he had not been killed at that moment, would it have caused a different finale? He doubted it. Just doing my job. “All right,” he finally said. “I’ll accept your apology. I have an apology of my own.”

“I suppose you do,” the man said.

John said, “You know, I have to cook you now.”

“Yeah,” the hit man said, “I know.”

The End

http://www.dorlanavann.com/

Humble Fiction Cafe Presents

Split

A dichotomy/opposites anthology
Purchase paperback

Doers of the Word

2009-02-02T15:04:00.005-06:00

This post is for you fellow bloggers out there!

A few friends sent me a link to an application that analyzes the writing style of your blog post and gives you a profile based on the Myers-Briggs personality standards.
It's a cool little app. Here is what it says about my blog:

"ESTP - The Doers

The active and playful type. They are especially attuned to people and things around them and often full of energy, talking, joking and engaging in physical out-door activities. The Doers are happiest with action-filled work which craves their full attention and focus. They might be very impulsive and more keen on starting something new than following it through. They might have a problem with sitting still or remaining inactive for any period of time. "

Interesting evaluation. It also gave me the cute little picture in the corner. I have no idea if all the little pictures you get are male or female, but maybe that is just my insecurity kicking in.

But overall, I'd say it's a good fit. I do have issues on follow through, so that is why keeping me focused on the rewrite of Good Hope is something I'm encouraging everyone who reads my blog to do. Post a comment, send an e-mail, or just shout at me through your computer. I'm sure I'll get the message.

If you'd like to try the analyzer for your personal blog, or for blogs that you follow, here is the link:

http://www.typealyzer.com/

Enjoy!

What I Learned From Daddy

2009-01-11T13:50:00.001-06:00

MEALS AND WHEELS, ALWAYS AND NEVER
By
Theresa Laws

The trouble started the moment I was born. Daddy wanted a boy. Being blessed with me instead, he gave me a name with his initials, then retreated into silence. He became a man of few words and me being well, me, I became a person of many, prattling on about everything and nothing, determined to fill all the empty spots in our relationship.
There were no discussions between us about how the world should run while we were together in his work shop. Only grumblings about how I had squashed walnuts in his vice.
We never mused about what women really want while on a fishing trip to the lake. There was only a terse reminder to be quiet because I was scaring the fish.
He never taught me how to drive, shoot a gun, or skin a catfish. What he did teach me was it was OK to break the rules. I know he never intended that with his message, but it worked out that way.
Eventually I gave up on Daddy and moved on to having other men in my life. Before long, I was engaged. Daddy said little about it until, I think, the night before the wedding.
All those years when he would have been imparting the wisdom of the ages to a son, he must have been pondering this worthwhile advice for his daughter.
He gazed up from his recliner, pale blue eyes steely, as usual. The best advice I could never follow came right after the speech about coming home if things didn’t work out, and about how there would be rules if I did…blah, blah, blah. Daddy blurted out all that pent up man to man advice and said:
“Always have meat for dinner and never buy retread tires.”
For once in my life, I was speechless. Always and never are two very tall orders. Being a dutiful daughter, I considered his instructions, and tried very hard to carry them out.
Moral obligations make some “always” and “nevers” easy, but most of life isn’t structured that way. Surprisingly, I’ve found that to be the case in my writing life as well – the one place we’re taught to follow strict rules. Sentence structure must be - just so. Punctuation goes - here. Spell words - this way.
When I first decided to become a writer, all the books I read and the prose I wrote followed the rules. Then, in a rebellious streak, I switched from classic works to popular (read BLOCK BUSTER SALES) and realized that those writers who broke the rules were wonderful.
I also realized that I would have many occasions in my life when I just couldn’t follow Daddy’s advice. By choice, sometimes there wasn’t meat for dinner. By necessity, sometimes retreads would have to do.
So, when I write, by choice I chose fragmented sentences to make a point. You know? Perhaps I use an unusual punctuation to help my reader understand exactly what I want to convey. Pause here, trail away… Maybe it’s necessary to misspell a word to impart personality in a character’s speech. Do ya think? And, I’ve discovered something else. Breaking the rule of always and never has made me a better writer. If that’s what it takes, I’ll do it. Always.

Another year... another step closer to the future.

2009-01-08T23:12:00.002-06:00

Posted by Victor

Over the past year, I've gone through a major transformation in how I view media. As I've written elsewhere, I'm at the point where I no longer have the urge to hoard and own media that can sit on my shelves. This past week, I took a dozen hardbacks to Half-Price Books. Many of these were books I've been hauling around for years and years. I felt a pang of regret upon letting them go, but that passed quickly. I am now preparing to sell almost my entire music CD collection and another batch of books.

One of the reasons I'm feeling less anxious about parting with these books is the rumor of a 9-inch touchscreen iPod. Already, a regular iPod and iPhone are gaining significant ground on the Amazon Kindle and the Sony eReader. If the reading experience on a regular iPod is pleasant enough, a 9-inch touchscreen iPod will be the killer app that drives a stake in a large percentage of the paper book industry.

This 9-inch iPod won't be the ultra-portable device like a phone, but I really believe it can become the all-in-one media device we (well, I'VE) been waiting for. One device that easily play music and movies, display e-books and pdfs and word documents, surf the web, and play hundreds of games... what's not to love?

But you're saying, "I've already got that! It's called my laptop computer!"

But this will be different. This will be the lightweight ultra-cool device that you carry around with you as easy as a notebook. It won't be as powerful as a laptop, but it will be infinitely more fun. You'll be able to use it anywhere at any time and have all your media available to you at moment's notice.

One industry that I think will especially benefit from a device like this is the rapidly dying comic book industry. Already, you can't get most comic books anywhere except comic specialty stores. And the prices on a single comic is about to jump up to nearly five dollars an issue. Even considering potential collectability, it's not worth it. The best comics are usually the independent publishers, or the self-publishers, and the cost for them to produce even small runs of an issue aren't financially viable. But something like this large-format iPod will completely level the comic book playing field and make them a viable mainstream form of media. If the only hard cost a comic creator has is for the art supplies, then they can lower the purchase cost for a digital issue to a reasonable rate, maybe even as low as 50 or 25 cents. The upside is, the creator no longer has a finite number of issues he or she can sell (which is based on how many they can afford to publish). Now, they can sell as many copies as people want to download. Combine this with an iTunes-like store, and you have the rebirth of a new medium.

And not just traditional stand-alone comics, but comics with varying degrees of interactivity or motion. I can easily envision a format where you at first only see the art, then advance the page or panel and it reveals each word or thought balloon in succession rather than having to have all of them crammed into the frame right from the top.

The one thing I think that will ultimately be the tipping point for a device like this 9-inch iPod isn't comic books or videos. It's schools. The first time a school or college makes their schoolbooks available digitally, it will be all over. Imagine only having to carry one slim touchscreen around all day, rather than fifty pounds of books. Once Apple worms its way back into the educational market (where it once was king, back in the 80's and 90's), the paper book industry as we know it today will be no more. Raise kids on reading books and comics using a digital device, and they'll never get that connection to having to own a physical book. Just like all of us no longer care about owning CD's or albums. I've got my music on my iPod, and I could care less about the physical object.

Okay... I'm done rambling. I predict that by this time two years from now, the big buzz topic will be how much the act of reading (for pleasure) has taken hold among our youth, because it will be cool and fun and convenient.

And for all of us that fancy ourselves writers, that's something to look forward to.