Muse Guide

Scenerymania entry; the meeting of the gods part 1

The stage is set. Curtain opens to reveal a 
room. The walls are crimson and on opposite 
ends are windows open to the outside. A 
large mahogany door leads backstage. On the 
stage lies a couple of reclining …chairs 
encircling a large round table. All are made 
of wood. Adorning the table, close to the 
edges where the chairs are set, are sets of 
chalices with a large one set at the centre of 
the table. One after the other, the men come 
in through the backstage. 
Almost as soon as all are seated, lightning 
flashes across the stage and is followed by a 
loud roar of thunder. Like a spark, the flash 
metamorphoses into a man. He wears a silky 
white robe taped at the extremes in silver. He 
has a small-size silver crown atop his head 
and holds a huge trident. All rises as they 
bow their heads to acknowledge this man. He 
sits and others follow suit) 
Old Dragon : I have summoned you here. 
From the four corners of the earth, the minds 
and foolishness of men. I have seen the good 
works you have wrecked. Welldone! Now, for 
the benefit of the others seated here, recount 
all that you have done to completely spot the 
white robes of the supposedly spotless 
virgins. Let’s hear from you, god of thunder 
and lightning. 
Zeus : (Stands and take a bow) What an 
honour! (He then stands upright) I have 
infiltrated the minds of men, young and old. I 
have taken over their souls and they have not 
realized it yet. Hardly would you find a man 
gifted in the arts who wouldn’t pay allegiance 
to me. Many ways have I taken over their 
souls. Permit me to tell some of them while I 
am seated (He bows again). 
Old Dragon : Great Zeus! (Lets out a sinister 
laugh.) You have all the time you would 
need. We are all ears. (Motions to him to 
sit). 
Zeus : Thank you sire. (Sits). I have made it 
so in the arts that if you do not know or write 
about me or other olympian gods, you do not 
know the arts. I have sponsored numerous 
laudable movies and writings that have 
heightened their zest to learn more. Why else 
would they flip the books in the library, their 
minds bent on one that sheds more light on 
the greek literature. They would spend hours 
on end feeding their gay curiousity, taking 
notes and aligning them for easier 
understanding. I have so infested their minds 
that each time lightning flashes and thunder 
strikes, Zeus comes to their minds. 
(Chuckles). I have also trained other gods to 
carry on the trend. Amongst my proteges are 
Sango, whom I have sent to some south- 
western part of a naive country,and 
Amadioha to the eastern part of the same 
country. Time would not permit me to name 
them all and state the geographical parts 
that I have handed over to them. (drinks from 
his cup). 
Old Dragon : Bravo! I would love to hear 
more. Perhaps that is all you have wrought. 
Zeus : No sire. I have also left them with 
many mysteries to solve. The paternity of 
numerous mystical births. An interesting tale 
of the emergence of other gods. 
Poseidon,hades,hera,and others. Foolish 
humans! They would never believe that I do 
not exist but in their minds. Feasting on their 
naivety and curiousity. I should stop here, 
lest I consume time. 
Old Dragon : You have done well! Who else 
shall I call upon to give account? (Eyes 
Baphomet) 
By: Coxson Tijani David Gascoigne (D.S_Hill) for Talesmen. Y
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Scenerymania entry; the meeting of the gods part 1

The stage is set. Curtain opens to reveal a room. The walls are crimson and on opposite ends are windows open to the outside. A large mah...

Scenerymania entry: Nick never knew,

The light of day doesn’t chase away the 
shadows. It simply outlines them. 
You’d think that the sun would 
burn away your fear like it would a morning 
mist, but it isn’t so. In the day, the darkness 
is deeper, blacker, contrasting with the white 
light. At night, it’s absolute: everything is 
cast in monochrome, each colour just 
another shade of midnight blue. At night it’s 
usually dark enough to warrant use of the 
night vision specs and the thermal imaging 
goggles. They’re a bonus. With them, you can 
see a body’s heat through a wall. With 
thermal imaging, you know where you stand. 
Even with night vision, everything is clearly 
outlined. 
It’s in the daytime you see the 
least. When the sun is approaching its apex, 
when the infernal heat of that fiery ball beats 
directly down on your back: that is when 
you’re at our most vulnerable. Ironically, it’s 
in the day that you can see the least. 
As a child I used to be afraid of 
the dark. Now the tables are turned. As an 
adult, I loathe the day. 
I rest my fingers on my handgun, 
the cool in direct contrast with my hand. I 
twist my head abruptly to one side, seeking 
out the demons that dance at the corners of 
my vision. But there’s nothing there: just my 
mind, playing tricks on my jumped-up brain. 
I’m as safe as can be. Nothing 
with any semblance of intelligence would 
dare attack us: an eight-strong team, armed 
to the teeth and alert to every movement. 
We’ve been through this before – raiding the 
towns and villages where there are less of 
them to deal with, taking what we can and 
getting it back home safely. We’re always on 
edge during a raid; always elated when we 
get away with it. Some of us do it for the 
adrenaline rush, others because we feel a 
sense of duty towards the community. 
Every man, woman and child still 
alive has to be protected. It’s the cardinal 
rule, the one we never break, that most 
sacred of commandments. There is no ‘every 
man for himself’ sentimentality. It’s ‘leave no 
man behind’. We trust one another with our 
lives. We have no choice in the matter. If we 
don’t trust one another completely, then we 
all die. 
“I bet there’s a nest in the 
hardware store,” comments Nick. “They flock 
to places like that. I wonder what makes 
them go there. What’s the appeal in a room 
full of DIY equipment?” 
“Maybe they’re suicidal,” proposes 
David. He grins widely, staring past the street 
“Back in the beginning, I smashed up a fair 
few of ‘em with a two-by-four and it’s 
difficult to forget the day I drilled a hole 
through the centre of one’s forehead. That 
must’ve been back when the energy grid was 
still up...” 
“Shut it,” hisses John, voice low. 
“Do you want us to have to fight our way out 
of here?” He glares at David, ice-blue eyes 
boring into him. 
“Relax – they’ll be asleep this 
time in the day. Even if they are awake, they 
aren’t going to come outside. You know how 
they are with sunlight: they practically 
develop melanoma at the sight of a clear 
blue sky.” He smirks, but no-one else 
appreciates the humour. Most of us just 
aren’t in the mood. 
As always, the street is empty 
and broken. It’s the same across the country, 
maybe even across the world: shop fronts 
smashed from the riots, cars abandoned by 
the curb, houses bleak, radiating lifelessness 
with a quiet malice. No matter what town we 
visit, they’re all identical: ghost towns, every 
one of them, the inhabitants either dead or 
changed. 
Changed. 
I shudder as I recall the changing: 
the outbreaks, the newsflashes; the panic. I 
screw my eyes shut tight, closing myself off 
from the memories. I can’t afford to become 
distracted now. There’s too much at stake for 
that. 
“What’s taking them so bloody 
long?” seethes John. I grimace. John’s a 
strange one. He gets angry anytime he’s 
skittish and takes it out on everyone. A 
remarkably sour character, he is. But one 
can’t fault him: if we don’t deal with the 
nerves somehow, guys go mad – women too. 
I’ve seen it happen. Some folk just can’t 
handle the violence or the brutality. Others 
revert to their old view of the world, choosing 
to believe that everything is as it used to be. 
“Relax,” I say to him. “They’ll be 
out soon. Just watch the streets. Wouldn’t do 
to let one slip past, would it?” 
John registers the point, but 
doesn’t seem in the mood to verbally accept 
it. It’s funny how different we are, me and 
him: we may be the same age, but we’re 
hardly typical eighteen year-olds. Then again, 
can anything really be labelled ‘normal’ 
anymore? It seems redundant to tag anything 
like that now. Normal... Ha! I would give my 
left ear for a day’s worth of normality. 
I know why he’s uneasy – we’re 
all a little twitchy just now. Just last week, 
they took Caleb; dragged him away into the 
dark interior of a burnt-out building, 
snatching him from the dying light of the 
evening. We had to leave him. There was 
nothing we could do for him. We had to leave 
him there, in the dark, out of sight. But we all 
heard his screams. 
A crash resounds from a side 
street all of ten metres away. My left hand 
flies to my Beretta in its holster, fingers 
twitching around the trigger. My right grabs 
the grip of the hunting knife strapped to my 
leg. I check the others, see that they’ve done 
the same: Nick has his baseball bat hefted 
high, as if ready for the bowler’s throw; 
David’s AK is tucked in against his shoulder; 
John’s thin arm holds his own handgun a 
distance from his body, the barrel levelled at 
the entrance to the side street. 
We stand in silence, holding our 
breaths in apprehension, eyes focused on the 
entrance to that shadowed alleyway. But 
nothing presents itself to us, neither man nor 
beast. But still we poise, ready to unleash 
hell on whatever horror the street may hold. 
And then it rolls out: a dull metal trash can 
lid, powered onwards by the wind. 
The disc of silver settles in the 
middle of the street with a clang. David 
laughs nervously. “Ha! Are we men, or are we 
mice? We just got spooked by a bin.” 
“Shut it, Dave! I very nearly 
dropped my guts.” I could see it in his eyes: 
he had been well and truly scared. But 
there’s no room for fear anymore – not 
today. 
“Man up, Johnny boy,” snaps 
Nick, voicing my thoughts for all to hear. 
“This is the way we live now. Get used to it. 
Quit being afraid of your own shadow – it’s 
inevitable that we’re going to have to fight 
sometime, so stop fearing the idea.” 
John fixes him with a murderous 
stare, and Nick sighs. Adopting a lower, 
calmer tone, he continues: “Look, we’re all 
on edge. But if you continue going down the 
road you’re walking along, you’ll lose your 
mind. Seen it happen before. I don’t want 
another insane kid on my hands.” 
The boy drops his eyes, nodding in 
reluctant agreement. I’m finding myself in 
agreement with Nick, too: there’s nothing 
worse than paranoia. I’ve experienced my fair 
share of it in the past. But maybe Nick’s 
wrong. Complacency will get you killed. 
Paranoia might just keep you alive. 
There’s a muffled bang from 
inside the shop we’re guarding. We all twist 
around, alert once again to danger. Through 
the dirtied windows, we catch glimpses of 
dancing silhouettes. There’s a crash and a 
clamour to follow – a voice yelling. 
“Oh, we’re deep in the doo-doo 
now,” mutters David, and raises his assault 
rifle once more. 
The door flies open, and out 
rushes a sweat-streaked woman, her face set 
in determination. “Come on, get out!” she 
yells, abandoning stealth and subtlety. 
There’s only one reason that any of us would 
be shouting in a place as dangerous as this. 
A shiver passes down my spine. 
Another forager – a man this time 
– charges through the doorway pushing a 
trolley loaded with supplies. Nick turns to 
him. 
“Where?” demands Nick. 
“At the back,” he responds, 
gasping for breath. “Half a dozen.” 
“Damn,” he curses. “The others?” 
“We can’t wait for them,” David 
points out. “If they got caught, they haven’t a 
chance in hell of surviving. All we can do is 
hope they die quickly.” 
Nick doesn’t say anything for a 
moment. Shouts resound from within the 
store, acting as catalysts to his thoughts. He 
faces a decision here – a tough call. But 
there’s really only one remaining option left 
to us: get the hell out of here. The only 
question is how long it’ll take him to reach 
that conclusion. Get a wriggle on, Nick , I 
think desperately. We haven’t the time! 
“No,” he says, startling us all. “We 
leave no man behind. David, John: stay here 
and guard the others. Art: you’re with me. 
Shoot anything that moves that isn’t us.” He 
turns to the woman. “Fiona: your torch.” 
She hands the torch across to him 
as Nick tries to dissuade him. “This is 
suicide, Nick!” he argues. “We need to-” 
“We can’t lose them!” yells Nick. 
“We simply can’t afford for people to die any 
more. You want to leave? Fine – you have 
the key to the truck. But you’ll have our 
deaths on your conscience forevermore if you 
go now.” And then he’s off, vanishing into the 
shadows. 
I groan. “To hell with it all!” I 
declare. I draw the Beretta, and that’s it: I’m 
running; running into the lion’s den. 
I always did hate Mondays. 
The interior of the store is dark and dusty. 
Long-forgotten crisp packets sit beside 
corrupted bags of sweets on shelves in the 
abandoned aisles. It is strangely dead and 
lifeless. In fact, it’s like entering a long- 
sealed tomb - except for the shouting. 
Angered cries echo back from 
ahead. Nick stalks forwards quickly, his 
baseball bat at his side, a beam of light 
shooting from the torch he holds in his left 
hand. The torch slices through the dark like a 
knife, cleaving it in two with ease. 
Nick gestures to me, and I pad 
across to him as quietly as speed allows. 
“What’s the plan?” I whisper to him. This was 
his call – I’m kind of hoping that he’s had 
some sort of inspiration. 
“You run through the door and 
shoot everything that isn’t one of our own.” 
That’s a little worrying. “And what 
are you going to be doing...?” 
“I’ll follow, finish off those you 
managed to down and then lead the others 
out,” he states. 
“You made that up on the spot, 
didn’t you?” I ask, suspicious. 
“I’m not denying it,” he says, 
flashing me a slightly hysterical grin. But his 
amusement is short lived. “On my signal, we 
go. You ready?” 
I nod uncertainly. I can still hear 
them – yelling, crashing around. It sounds 
like they’re struggling with something. We 
have to act now, or there’ll be no-one left to 
rescue. David was right, I think: This is 
bloody suicide. 
“Now!” says Nick, loud and clear. 
I shoot off, rushing at the door leading 
through to the storeroom, Nick right behind 
me, the torchlight shining over my shoulder. I 
unconsciously flick the safety off. My weapon 
is ready to use. The good Lord knows that 
I’m going to need it. And then we’re in. 
A pair of fallen torches 
illuminates the scene for us. A pale-faced 
woman is locked in combat with an all but 
unseen figure, using her long dagger to beat 
it back. By her side is an older man, trying to 
fight off another one of the shadowy figures 
with a length of lead piping – a cruel parody 
on the classic murder mystery game. There 
are several more faceless figures stirring in 
the corner. It’s now that I realise that Fiona 
was right: we’ve disturbed a nest. 
“Down!” I yell, catching the man 
and the woman by surprise. I can’t wait for 
them – I fire, taking down an attacker. It 
collapses to the ground in a pool of blood. 
They get the point now, ducking down as I 
sweep the barrel of the Beretta across the 
room, firing as I go. Another snarling creature 
bites the dust, a bullet taking away the side 
of its face. 
I jerk my head backwards. The old 
man gets the message: he drags himself and 
his companion back, out of the storeroom. 
Nick’s laying into the fallen monsters. But 
there are more of them – and by now, they’re 
quite active. 
I swear and load another clip into 
the Beretta. “Fall back! Retreat! Turn tail! Oh, 
damn it, just get out!” I back away, gun held 
ready to fire. I may have a clear shot, but I 
hold back all the same: I can’t afford to 
waste bullets. With no-one around to make 
them anymore, we’ve got to conserve 
everything we can. 
I sweep up one of the fallen 
torches and shine the beam at the knot of 
things in the corner – and catch my first 
glimpse of the Changed. 
There are five of them – three 
male, two female – their skin torn and 
peeling. Like wallpaper in a long-forgotten 
bedroom it flakes. These guys are far gone. 
One of them, a male, stumbles forwards. It’s 
the face I fixate on, the horrible apparition 
searing its image into my mind: his face is 
rotting away, the flesh an incomplete pale 
sheet drawn across his face. Where there 
should be a cheek there is a gaping hole that 
reveals chipped and broken teeth, diseased 
gums oozing blood and nameless 
substances. A tangled, matted lock sticks to 
the raw red flesh, plastered with plasma. His 
scalp is all but gone, held there by but a few 
remaining clumps of dark hair. His forehead 
is swollen, a hideous growth covering half of 
a bleary eye. All the same, those awful pupils 
fix on me, burning with cold, dumb hatred. A 
rivulet of saliva runs down his chin to join 
the snot that falls from his nose. 
The Changed fixes on me, utters a 
slobbering growl that slips out past his 
cheek. It reaches out towards me, torn 
fingernails clawing at the space between us. 
My face sets, hard as stone. I feel no pity for 
this deranged thing that was once a man. But 
I’ll do something for him anyway: despatch 
him. 
The impact spins him around, 
smashing him into the main body of his 
companions. I note with satisfaction that the 
bullet’s taken the side of his head with it. 
A hand clamps down on my arm – 
strong, warm – not one of the Changed. “Get 
a move on, Art! You want to die?” 
I turn from the destruction that 
I’ve wrought and run, hot on Nick’s heels. 
But I can hear the Changed following after 
me, blistered feet slapping against the floor. I 
twist as I run; fire backwards. There’s a 
muffled screech and something hits the floor 
with a heavy thump. I pump my arms, run 
on, a patch of light skittering across the 
walls, the shelves and the floor as the torch 
shakes in my grasp. 
Nick stops abruptly a few metres 
ahead of me. “Duck!” he yells, and I’m quick 
to respond. I slide past on my knees, just 
able to catch the sight of a baseball bat 
connecting with the nose of a Changed, 
smashing it to the floor. 
Through the doorframe, I see the 
light of day, bright and beckoning. If I pass 
across that threshold, I’ll be safe. The 
Changed won’t follow us if we get fully into 
the light. I power forwards, my feet pounding 
the floor, advancing along the aisles, past the 
cashier, over the welcome mat... 
And then I’m safe, spilling out into 
the day. I fall to the ground, rolling back. I 
feel strong arms pulling me back as I gasp 
for breath, a voice shouting out. 
Nick. Where is Nick? He was right 
on my tail – where is he, damn it!? Through 
the doorway, I can see nothing – but I hear 
what’s going on just fine. The crack of bone 
funnels itself down my ear canals, the shouts 
of a man and the hissing snarls of the 
Changed a hellish choir. “Nick! Get out of 
there, damn it!” 
That second stretches out 
seemingly forever. In that moment, all I can 
see of Nick is a moving patch of shadow, a 
shadow that I imagine to be wielding a bat 
as a club. But then that shadow’s moving, 
getting closer, closer, closer... 
The AK’s pointing into the black 
again, and I know why. Nick may already be 
dead. What’s coming towards us might be a 
diseased monster as opposed to a loyal 
friend. We can’t take any risks. And still the 
shadow figure gets closer, until the light is 
upon him. 
David tightens his grip on the gun. 
“Hold your fire! It’s me!” 
Sweet relief washes over me as I 
take in his grinning face, his fine, smiling 
features glowing in the light. There’s not a 
scratch on him: he’s completely unharmed. 
He raises the baseball bat and 
points to the assault rifle. “Careful where you 
point that thing – I wouldn’t want to be a 
colander, now would I?” He grins manically, 
hyped up from the action. “Now, let’s see 
about getting back to-” 
He never gets the chance to finish 
his sentence. A gnarled, blood-washed hand 
curls round and digs its claw-like fingers into 
his neck and wrenches back, tearing an 
impossible gap in his throat. A ragged gasp 
of pain and shock escapes his frothing mouth 
as Nick collapses to the ground. And then we 
see it: the Changed, the awful vehicle of that 
hideous virus, its jagged teeth bared in a 
growl of defiance. 
Even as I empty the clip into its 
bloated chest, I know that the action is futile. 
With every twitch of my finger, I release 
another projectile powered by hate and anger 
and sorrow. But it all amounts to nothing as 
the thing topples to the floor, lifeless eyes 
staring into infinity; falls to the ground, to lie 
beside him; spills its blood to mix with his. 
I can do nothing to help. Because 
Nick is dead.
This is an excerpt from "through those dark doorways" by timothy turpin on figment. You can read the whole story <a href="http://m.figment.com/books/432281-Through-Those-Dark-Doorways">here</a>
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Scenerymania entry: Nick never knew,

The light of day doesn’t chase away the shadows. It simply outlines them. You’d think that the sun would burn away your fear like it woul...

Visual art featured masterpiece entry: 3D street art.

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3d Street Art, often known as 3d 
chalk art is 2-dimensional artwork 
drawn on the street itself that gives 
you a 3-dimensional optical illusion 
from a certain perspective. It can be 
very breathtaking, realistic and at the 
same time captivating once you get 
the angle correct. And creating one 
is certainly through and challenging 
as you are creating a realistic 3d 
view out of a 2d painting. 
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Visual art featured masterpiece entry: 3D street art.

3d Street Art, often known as 3d chalk art is 2-dimensional artwork drawn on the street itself that gives you a 3-dimensional optical il...

Writer's tutorial entry: how to Get Letters Published inMagazines.

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When I first began writing seriously in 2010, 
I began to focus on the fiction market for 
women's magazines. 
As I became more involved in the 'womag' 
scene, I discovered that several of these 
short story writers had had letters published 
in national magazines. I thought, why don't I 
have a go at that too? I kept seeing the 
same writers' names crop up in the letters 
page of lots of national magazines. 
Fuelled by envy and an attitude of, 'Well, if 
she can do it, so can I', I channeled my 
energy, put fingers to the keyboard, and 
tried again. 
This time I made sure I studied the tone of 
the magazine I intended to submit to, and 
what type of letter was likely to be picked 
for publication, plus the subject of it. For 
example, I learned that positive feedback 
about a previous feature was popular. 
I kept my submissions short and snappy, 
breezy and bright. 
My hard work paid off. I was absolutely 
delighted to see my letter published in 
What's on TV magazine, closely followed by 
another letter! I was even more delighted to 
receive a payment of £10 for little more 
than a paragraph. 
A slot on the WOTV letters page is called 
'Rant of the Week'. It provides readers with 
an opportunity to let rip about programmes 
that contain bad acting, or a dismal script - 
whatever gets your goat. This is an area 
where negative comments are actively 
welcomed, but to keep to the point - they 
last thing they want is a three-page 
plodding missive about how the TV licence 
money is being wasted! 
I've also had several letters published in 
Woman's Weekly and the some opinion 
pieces for the 'You're Telling Us' page in 
Take a Break. 
However, some of the questions can be a 
little too saucy for my taste, and can range 
like this: 'Do you prefer to make love or 
watch TV?' and 'Do you let your hubby see 
you naked?' 
While some see this type of query as 
harmless and a bit of fun, I don't respond, 
as I prefer my private life to remain just that 
- private. 
The 'You're Telling Us' weekly question can 
be found on the TAB Facebook page . 
Some publications offer a prize to the star 
letter only. 
I attempt it, and often I don't win the prize, 
yet I'm still pleased to see my piece 
published - it gives me a boost of 
confidence, as it proves I can tailor work to 
the magazine's requirements and that my 
standard is good enough to be chosen for 
the letters page, if nothing else! 
Even if the prize isn't great, I still enjoy the 
challenge, to see if I can get published in a 
new mag. It took me a few good goes before 
my letters eventually got published in Tesco 
magazine and The People's Friend. 
Picking a magazine you are interested in 
helps. For instance, because I'm a 
vegetarian, it was fairly easy for me to 
submit two letters for the glossy monthly 
Vegetarian Living . They were published! 
If you have a hobby, e.g. computers or 
cooking, pick a suitable magazine that 
accompanies it. For instance, my hubby 
Keith is a very good cook and baker. 
He's had several recipes published in Take 
a Break's My Favourite Recipe magazine. 
As I love writing, I submitted to Writers' 
Forum magazine - I was thrilled when they 
printed two of my letters. 
Some magazines also publish short poetry 
on their letters page - I've had two poems in 
Yours . 
Don't forget that top tips, funny photos, a 
'pet of the week' type feature and beauty 
queries are much in demand, too. 
Although you won't be able to earn a 
regular salary from this, the odd ten pounds 
here and there soon adds up. 
Bear in mind that no matter how many 
letters you submit, you won't be chosen 
every time. Consider the fact that the editor 
or team will become familiar with your 
name. They may feel you are trying to earn 
money out of the publishing company. 
However, saying that, I think they do 
appreciate regular contributors - just don't 
swamp them! After all, you are supposed to 
be a reader, not a writer. 
Publications are always looking for well- 
written, entertaining, intelligent letters that 
fit in with the editorial style of the 
magazine. Always be cheerful and polite 
and don't waffle, as they only have a 
certain amount of slots available for letters. 
Work can be edited, changed or even added 
to - to me, this doesn't matter, as I want to 
be published and I want to be paid. 
I know of one writer who was furious when a 
national weekly edited her piece before 
publishing it. She rang them up, only to be 
told, 'We're very sorry, but we only have so 
much space on the page.' 
So don't be precious about your work - 
journalists have their articles and features 
edited every day, and they don't seem to 
mind! 
Some editors let you know beforehand if 
your letter has been selected, some don't. 
I recently won a prize of a jigsaw puzzle, 
yet I hadn't a clue who had awarded it to 
me or what publication my letter was in. All 
I had was a letter saying 'Congratulations!' 
from the makers of the jigsaw, which didn't 
really help. 
Eventually I realised I must have been 
awarded star letter in Down Your Way, a 
Yorkshire-based nostalgic magazine. 
Pleased as punch, I rushed out and bought 
it, only for a complimentary copy to arrive 
in the post later. 
You can't always rely on a complimentary 
copy being sent to you, though - that was 
very rare! 
So, what's stopping you from having a go? 
If I can do it, so can you. Get writing, get 
submitting, and good luck! 
This article is courtesy of Sharon Boothroyed. 
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Writer's tutorial entry: how to Get Letters Published inMagazines.

When I first began writing seriously in 2010, I began to focus on the fiction market for women's magazines. As I became more involve...

Writer's tutorial entry: 15 writing tips your teacher probably didn't teach you

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1. Start Before You Are Ready 
If you wait until you feel 100%, you may 
never start. Always start writing before you 
are absolutely ready. You'll find that you 
know more than enough to start. 
2. Write As You Speak 
It's tempting to want to sound more 
professional or intellectual in your writing, 
but simplicity wins every time. Avoid 
complicated sentence structures and too 
many adjectives. Instead simply write as you 
speak. You can always edit your writing for 
clarity later. 
3. Write Full Copy 
Writing an outline or rough dot points can 
only take you so far. Write a full copy, long- 
hand draft that is complete and ready for a 
final edit, straight off the mark. 
4. Avoid Perfectionism 
Your writing will never be perfect, so striving 
for perfection is a fruitless task. Accept that 
your writing is good enough and keep going. 
You will improve over time and become a 
better writer but no one is ever perfect. 
5. Write to Your Ideal Reader 
Imagine your ideal reader and write to him or 
her. Your ideal reader might be based off a 
real person, or be someone completely 
imaginary. The important thing is that you 
have a clear image in your mind of exactly 
who this person is. By keeping your ideal 
reader in mind, you will be writing directly to 
your audience. 
6. Eliminate Redundant Words 
Avoid overwriting by using fewer words to 
express the same sentiment. Doing this will 
tighten up your writing to achieve better flow 
and more impact. 
7. Write Every Single Day 
Writing every single day will help you avoid 
writers block by maintaining a flow to your 
writing practice. It will also ensure that 
you're constantly improving and becoming a 
better writer. After all, practice makes perfect. 
8. Create a First Draft 
Without editing, write your first draft freely. 
Doing this will help you maintain your flow. 
Creating and editing are two separate mental 
processes so it's essential to keep them as 
separate tasks in your writing schedule also. 
9. Don't Wait for the Perfect Moment 
The perfect moment to write may never 
come, so don't sit around waiting for it. The 
best moment to start writing is right now. 
10. Read Your Writing Out Aloud 
It's tempting to edit your writing by reading 
silently, but saying the words aloud is 
essential. It will help you eliminate the 
awkward sentences and errors you didn't 
catch first time around. 
11. Read the Work of Great Writers 
Reading is an essential step in learning to be 
a better writer. Read the work of great writers 
you admire to get inspired and learn how 
they structure their writing. 
12. Start a Writing Routine and Stick to It 
Every great writer has a good routine. Find 
what works best for you and stick to it. Pick 
a time of day and a place, and write like your 
life depends on it. 
13. Live Your Life 
Great writers live interesting lives. An 
interesting life will give you great inspiration 
and material for your own writing, so get out 
there and do great things to become a better 
writer. 
14. Don't Wait for the Perfect Conditions 
You don't need a special desk, the perfect 
view, or a sunny day to write. All you need is 
a pen and paper. Stop making excuses and 
write no matter what. 
15. Join a Writers Group 
Join a writers group to meet like minded 
people who share your interest and ambition 
for writing. A writers group will provide you 
with the much needed support, guidance, and 
motivation you need to become a great 
writer. 
This article is courtesy from Trent Steele 
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Writer's tutorial entry: 15 writing tips your teacher probably didn't teach you

1. Start Before You Are Ready If you wait until you feel 100%, you may never start. Always start writing before you are absolutely ready...

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Writer's tutorial entry: how to Get Letters Published inMagazines.

Writer's tutorial entry: 15 writing tips your teacher probably didn't teach you

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