Muse Guide

Writer's tutorial entry; Do You Make These Three BigMistakes With Dialogue?

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Real-life conversation? It’s no excuse for 
confusing, irritating, distracting or boring our reader! In this guest post, ace copy editor Jodie Renner gives us three great tips for writing realistic dialogue that works - and keeps our reader happily 
in our story. First off, you don’t want to frustrate or annoy us by trying to reproduce regional dialects exactly as they sound. Also, I’d be cautious about using the very latest slang expressions. They could end up dating your story within a year or two. That would not be groovy! (Pun intended.) 
In-your-face profanities can lose you readers. And finally, please, leave out all the boring yadda- yadda blah-blah filler stuff! Don’t mangle characters’ speech So you’ve done your research? You know precisely how a character – regional, foreign or from an historical period -should sound? Don’t make the mistake of trying to reproduce those speech patterns phonetically. As Jack Bickham says, “There was a time, not so long ago, when fiction writers strove for authenticity in some of their stories by attempting to imitate regional and ethnic dialects and pronunciations by purposely misspelling words in their dialogue. Today such practices have fallen into disfavor.”</div>
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Why? Because it’s distracting and irritating. Not only that, it runs the risk of obscuring your intended meaning. It will throw your reader out of your story – the exact opposite of what you’re going for. Also, you could easily end up offending people from that region if you depict their everyday speech as a laughable sub-language. 
Here’s an example, from an older story about slaves and the Civil War. The passage was narrated by a slave:</div>
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“So dey jump on dey horses and gallop ‘way. An’we ain’t see’d dem since. Dey friends say dey be kilt in one o’ de firs’ battles o’ de war. Dat be good lesson fo’ we, shure ‘nuf! Black folk ain’t gonna go off ta fight in a war. Life be tuff enuf here wid’ Massa an’ his whip, widout uder buckra be shootin’ at de menfolk an’ killin’ ‘em dead.” 
And it went on like that for pages! Ouch! 
So these days, editors, agents - and discerning readers – frown on phonetic spelling, misspellings or the overuse of apostrophes to indicate missing letters, or any other deviations from standard English speech. They may get your story, otherwise compelling, rejected. How do you get your regional flavor across to your readers? Use an occasional elision (a dropped sound, indicated by an apostrophe) and plenty of regular contractions, with the odd regional word or expression thrown in. And that’s it. Don’t try to keep up with the latest slang expressions Many new authors try to appeal to their audience by using the latest slang expressions, especially in YA fiction. This is usually a mistake.</div>
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The language is changing so fast especially fad expressions, that what’s trendy or “in” today may be already dated by the time your short story or novel comes out. The moral? Be careful with using cutting-edge street talk or just-coined slang expressions. Stick to slang expressions that have been around for at least a few years. Don’t overdo the profanities Another mistake made by newbie writers is to replicate every F-word. It leaves readers wincing. Profanities and obscenities can often slide by in real life, depending on the situation, but they jump out at us on the printed page. So use them judiciously, to convey the general flavor. Don’t put them in every line. Save the worst of them for those story situations where a strong curse word is really needed to convey the emotion.</div>
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Also, consider your genre. Readers of cozy mysteries, for example, are mostly women aged 60 and up, so best to use less graphic language in those stories. The odd “Damn!” or “Crap!” or "friggin/frickin'" will usually suffice. 
Don’t reproduce actual conversations verbatim ‘Actual conversations’? I mean all the uhs and ums and ers and you knows and How are you? I’m fine, and you? In this basket I’ll put chitchat about the weather and other empty social niceties that lead up to (or follow) the real meat of the conversation. It puts your readers to sleep. And they won’t pick up your book again when they wake up. Writing gurus tell us, “Dialogue is war!” You need tension on every page. So if your dialogue doesn’t drive the story forward, add conflict or tension, or contribute to character development, take it out . In summary: oddball spelling, attempts at reproducing regional dialects phonetically, and heavy use of profanities all risk offending  omeone, whether it’s a member of a minority or just someone who doesn’t like swearing. The latest slang expressions may soon appear outdated and ridiculous. And empty blah blah is so boring, isn’t it? So be wary of reproducing characters’ dialogue exactly as it sounds in real life—it could backfire on you! 
What do you think? As a reader, how do you feel about the attempted reproduction of regional dialects in fiction - or about stories peppered with obscenities? As a writer, how do you make your characters sound ‘authentic’ without courting offence? Please leave a comment and share your views!</div>
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Jodie Renner is a renown freelance editor and this article is courtesy of her.</div>
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Writer's tutorial entry; Do You Make These Three BigMistakes With Dialogue?

Real-life conversation? It’s no excuse for confusing, irritating, distracting or boring our reader! In this guest post, ace copy editor J...

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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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh5h3fdFTCYgxF8IygVtBQnrJLM14R8esaHgLomsgHAcV_0JF9RxqoC5A7zsATwzrtp1UDFDRzIRsHENLQIUZawNlKRF26sXIBbjGIEPtoMAen4WqsJIWkDYG6_Vg3brSGIxd4E7D6AJU/s1600/HandPenPaper-300x199.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh5h3fdFTCYgxF8IygVtBQnrJLM14R8esaHgLomsgHAcV_0JF9RxqoC5A7zsATwzrtp1UDFDRzIRsHENLQIUZawNlKRF26sXIBbjGIEPtoMAen4WqsJIWkDYG6_Vg3brSGIxd4E7D6AJU/s640/HandPenPaper-300x199.jpg" /> </a> </div>
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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...

Writers tutorial entry; how to make your dialogue sparkle

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One sign of a fine cabinetmaker, I’m told, is the 
deftness with which he handles his nails. 
"Of course," he added, quickly "the finest 
cabinetmakers are often female." 
To resume my metaphor... each nail should do 
its job without calling attention to itself. The 
same might also be said about the dialogue 
tags we use when writing fiction. (For example, 
'he added, quickly’.) 
Technically called ‘inquits’ or ‘turn ancillaries’, 
dialogue tags act as stage directions to convey 
to the reader, perhaps subconsciously, who is 
speaking and - sometimes - in what mood or 
manner. 
The modern convention is that inquits should 
be invisible, like carpentry nails. To decorate 
our dialogue with colourful tags like ‘he 
snortled’, ‘she chortled’, ‘they fumed’, (or worse, 
'she beamed'), is perceived today as clumsy. 
The reader trips over them and falls out of the 
story. 
True, florid tags can be used to good effect 
when writing comedy or farce. ('"Yes, no, 
maybe. Who knows?" he verbigerated in 
despair’). But if you don’t intend to be funny - 
or the humour doesn’t work - the reader will 
yearn to hide your thesaurus. 
Solution #1 : 
Don’t use dialogue tags at all if it’s obvious 
from the context who’s speaking. If it’s not 
obvious, a volley of innocuous inquits like ‘he 
said’, ‘she said’, and the like, may be forgiven. 
They're stage directions, supposed to be 
invisible. But they’re boring. Sometimes, you do 
need to convey the manner in which a 
character speaks, and without using too many 
adverbs - the sign of an amateur. So... 
Solution #2: 
Characterise the speaker, and mark who’s 
speaking, by using a variation of the Pathetic 
Fallacy. This is the poetic device of granting 
human emotions to non-human phenomena or 
objects. It’s also a nifty little trick when writing 
dialogue. 
NOT: ‘"Sir, you insult me," he glowered.’ 
Properly speaking, ‘glower’ cannot be used as a 
verb for a speech act. (We’ve all done this, and 
worse, but - if overdone - it becomes hilarious.) 
INSTEAD: "‘Sir, you insult me!" His eyebrows 
lifted with menace.’ OR ‘The shadows darkened 
in his face.’ OR ‘The room grew cold.’ OR 
‘Thunder crackled in the hills. The storm was 
growing closer.’ 
It is now clear from the obliging behaviour of 
the environment both who is speaking and in 
what manner. The Pathetic Fallacy has come to 
our rescue. 
Solution #3 : Let characters convey their moods 
with actions not with adverbs . 
NOT: ‘"That is very foolish," she said, 
reprovingly.’ 
INSTEAD: ‘"That is very foolish." She made a 
close inspection of her fingertips.’ OR ‘She 
clicked her ballpoint pen.’ OR ‘She bit her 
finger-roll in half.’ 
We have now replaced the adverb 'reprovingly' 
with action. The scene has acquired energy - 
plus a little extra characterisation. 
Use this device too often, however, and readers 
will cry ‘How well s/he writes!’ rather than 
‘what a good story!’. No matter. A story, so 
grossly over-written, might win the Booker 
prize... 
(Even if it's unlikely to win a story 
competition.) 
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Writers tutorial entry; how to make your dialogue sparkle

One sign of a fine cabinetmaker, I’m told, is the deftness with which he handles his nails. "Of course," he added, quickly ...

Writers tutorial entry; how to make your dialogue sparkle

One sign of a fine cabinetmaker, I’m told, is the deftness with which he handles his nails. 
"Of course," he added, quickly "the finest cabinetmakers are often female." 
To resume my metaphor... each nail should do 
its job without calling attention to itself. The same might also be said about the dialogue tags we use when writing fiction. (For example, 
'he added, quickly’.) 
Technically called ‘inquits’ or ‘turn ancillaries’, dialogue tags act as stage directions to convey to the reader, perhaps subconsciously, who is speaking and - sometimes - in what mood or manner. 
The modern convention is that inquits should be invisible, like carpentry nails. To decorate our dialogue with colourful tags like ‘he 
snortled’, ‘she chortled’, ‘they fumed’, (or worse, 'she beamed'), is perceived today as clumsy. 
The reader trips over them and falls out of the story. 
True, florid tags can be used to good effect when writing comedy or farce. ('"Yes, no, maybe. Who knows?" he verbigerated in despair’). But if you don’t intend to be funny - or the humour doesn’t work - the reader will yearn to hide your thesaurus. 
Solution #1 : 
Don’t use dialogue tags at all if it’s obvious from the context who’s speaking. If it’s not obvious, a volley of innocuous inquits like ‘he said’, ‘she said’, and the like, may be forgiven. 
They're stage directions, supposed to be invisible. But they’re boring. Sometimes, you do need to convey the manner in which a character speaks, and without using too many 
adverbs - the sign of an amateur. So... 
Solution #2: 
Characterise the speaker, and mark who’s speaking, by using a variation of the Pathetic 
Fallacy. This is the poetic device of granting 
human emotions to non-human phenomena or 
objects. It’s also a nifty little trick when writing 
dialogue. 
NOT: ‘"Sir, you insult me," he glowered.’ 
Properly speaking, ‘glower’ cannot be used as a 
verb for a speech act. (We’ve all done this, and 
worse, but - if overdone - it becomes hilarious.) 
INSTEAD: "‘Sir, you insult me!" His eyebrows 
lifted with menace.’ OR ‘The shadows darkened 
in his face.’ OR ‘The room grew cold.’ OR 
‘Thunder crackled in the hills. The storm was 
growing closer.’ 
It is now clear from the obliging behaviour of 
the environment both who is speaking and in 
what manner. The Pathetic Fallacy has come to 
our rescue. 
Solution #3 : Let characters convey their moods 
with actions not with adverbs . 
NOT: ‘"That is very foolish," she said, 
reprovingly.’ 
INSTEAD: ‘"That is very foolish." She made a 
close inspection of her fingertips.’ OR ‘She 
clicked her ballpoint pen.’ OR ‘She bit her 
finger-roll in half.’ 
We have now replaced the adverb 'reprovingly' 
with action. The scene has acquired energy - 
plus a little extra characterisation. 
Use this device too often, however, and readers 
will cry ‘How well s/he writes!’ rather than 
‘what a good story!’. No matter. A story, so 
grossly over-written, might win the Booker 
prize... 
(Even if it's unlikely to win a story 
competition.)

Writers tutorial entry; how to make your dialogue sparkle

One sign of a fine cabinetmaker, I’m told, is the deftness with which he handles his nails. "Of course," he added, quickly "...

Writers tutorial entry; how to make your character more plausible

<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Encouraging an emotional bond between a 
reader and the protagonist is one of the most 
important jobs a writer has. We do this through 
empathy - a deep, meaningful connection that 
forms when we put the reader into the 
character’s emotional shoes. Many writers 
struggle with how to do this, because it usually 
means showing the character’s vulnerability . 
This can be a tall order if one has a tough 
character who equates emotions with 
weakness, because their hard shell prevents 
anyone (including the reader) from getting 
close. 
As people, we connect to vulnerability. It makes 
us feel that we are glimpsing at what lies 
behind the mask a person wears day -to-day, 
and seeing into the heart of who they truly are. 
So making sure our characters experience 
vulnerability, no matter how tough, how jaded, 
how determined they are to hide what they feel, 
is incredibly important. 
The problem is, most people don’t like feeling 
vulnerable. In fact they protect themselves 
against it, and avoid it at all costs. This leaves 
writers with a conundrum: how do they show 
their character in a vulnerable light to help 
create that closeness with the reader, yet stay 
true to authentic human behavior? The answer 
lies in understanding universal triggers for 
vulnerability, and then placing the protagonist 
in the path of one. 
Here are some ways to make your character feel 
- and appear - vulnerable, whether they want to 
or not: 
Through not knowing what will happen next. 
People crave control, of having power over 
what the future will bring. Take that away and 
you are left with the feeling of not knowing, of 
having no influence or say in the outcome. By 
placing the power in another’s hands through 
choices, actions and decisions, you rob your 
character of control. The resulting feelings of 
frustration, anxiety and even despair are all 
ones that reinforce vulnerability. Readers have 
all felt a loss of control at some point and so 
will deeply identify with the character’s range of 
feelings. 
Through the mistakes they make. 
Despite our best efforts, we all make mistakes. 
Not only do we hate it when one happens, we 
tend to beat ourselves up about it, growing 
frustrated and disappointed for not being 
smarter, stronger or better. Characters who 
make mistakes feel authentic, and it humanizes 
them to readers. Besides, mistakes create great 
plot complications & conflict! 
Through personal failures. 
Not succeeding at what one has set out to do 
is one of the most heartbreaking moments an 
individual can experience, and it is the same for 
our characters. A hero’s personal failure, 
especially one that has repercussions for 
others, is one way to break down those steel 
walls and show our hero as vulnerable and 
human. 
Through a death or loss. 
A deep, personal loss is never easy. Often a 
person only realizes what they had or what 
something meant when it’s gone. Again, this is 
a universal feeling, something all readers can 
identify with. Written well, seeing the hero 
experience loss will remind readers of their own 
past experiences. Death is final, but other 
losses can be potent as well. The loss of hope 
is particularly wounding. 
By having one’s role challenged. 
Whatever the character’s role is (be it a leader, 
a provider, a source of comfort , etc.) and 
having it challenged can be devastating. Roles 
are tied to one’s identity: the husband who 
loses his job may no longer be able to provide 
for his family. The leader who made a bad 
decision must witness the resulting lack of faith 
from his followers. The mother who fails to 
keep her child safe feels unsuited for 
motherhood. When a role is challenged in some 
way through choices or circumstances, it 
creates self-doubt, making the character feel 
vulnerable in a way readers identify with. 
By casting doubt on what one believes. 
Each person has set beliefs about the universe, 
how the world works, and the people in it, 
allowing them to understand their place in the 
big picture and instilling feelings of belonging. 
When knowledge surfaces that puts trusted 
beliefs into question, the character suffers 
disillusionment, a powerful feeling that can 
make them feel adrift in their own life. 
Disillusionments are an emotional blow and 
everyone has suffered one at some point. This 
can be a good way to trigger that feeling of 
shared experience of vulnerability between 
character and reader. 
By experiencing fear or worry for another. 
This ties into that loss of control I mentioned 
above, because one directly or indirectly has a 
lack of influence over circumstances affecting a 
loved one. Fear and worry can also create road 
blocks about how best to proceed. It’s one 
thing to take risks that only affect oneself, and 
another to take risks that will impact others. 
The paralysis a person feels over what decision 
to make when it impacts relationships is an 
experience readers understand. 
By having one’s secrets brought out in the 
open. 
Secrets are usually hidden for a reason and are 
often the source of guilt or shame. When one’s 
secrets are revealed, the character is stripped 
of their security, and they believe others will 
view them differently as a result. Readers can 
empathize with this raw feeling of being 
exposed. 
This article was courtesy angela aukerman 
 
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Writers tutorial entry; how to make your character more plausible

Encouraging an emotional bond between a reader and the protagonist is one of the most important jobs a writer has. We do this through em...

Writers tutorial entry; 5 things to stop doing (if you really want to finish your novel)

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Your novel isn’t going to write itself (I mean, if 
it were, it probably would have finished itself a 
long time ago!). Here are the five things you 
need to stop doing immediately if you want 
turn yourself into someone who stops asking 
questions about how to write a manuscript 
and starts bragging to friends about how you 
completed your manuscript. 
1. Nix the excuses. 
We get it, life is busy and writing is hard work 
sometimes. Still, excuses never changed 
anything, never inspired anybody, and never 
made any dreams a reality. Goals like writing a 
novel don’t die on their own. We suffocate them 
with our excuses. 
2. Stop trying . 
Your novel needs less “trying” and more 
“doing” from you. Like Yoda said, Do or do not. 
There is no try. 
3. Stop the Inner Critic’s crazy rants. 
Shut it down. Duct tape its mouth. Stand on its 
neck. Whatever you do, don’t let the Inner Critic 
make you doubt yourself. There’s no reason to. 
This is open range and there are no rules, no 
right and wrong. You can do Whatever. You. 
Want. 
4. Don’t overdose on caffeine. 
Seriously. I’m sorry, but it has to be said. Call it 
tough love if you want, but more writers go 
stark raving mad in espresso-fueled rages than 
any other artists (with the exception of polka 
musicians, for obvious reasons). 
Trust me on this. You don’t want your 
neighbors finding you crawling through their pet 
door at 3am in search of more coffee because 
you ran out at your house two hours earlier. 
Not that that’s happened to me. I’ve just heard 
stories. 
5. Stop thinking it should be easier. 
That’s like hoping gravity will get less gravity … 
er … ish. Less gravity like. OK, poor choice of 
words. You know what I mean. Bottom line: 
writing is what it is. Sometimes it’s easier than 
at other times. Expect it to be work and you’ll 
be thrilled when it doesn’t feel that way. 
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Writers tutorial entry; 5 things to stop doing (if you really want to finish your novel)

Your novel isn’t going to write itself (I mean, if it were, it probably would have finished itself a long time ago!). Here are the five t...

Writers tutorial entry; how to write a simple haiku 2

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HAIKU AND HOW WE WRITE IT. (PART TWO) 
Compiled By: Moses S. Olarotimi 
Help us promote #creativity by liking our page 
USE SENSORY LANGUAGE 
(6)Describe the details. Haiku are comprised of details observed by the five senses. The poet witnesses an event and uses words to compress that experience so others may understand it in some way. Once you have chosen a subject for your haiku, 
(7)think about what details you want to describe. Call the subject to mind and explore these questions 
•What did you notice about the subject? What colors, textures, and contrasts did you observe? 
•How did the subject sound? What was the tenor and volume of the event that took place? 
•Did it have a smell, or a taste? How can you accurately describe the way it felt? 
(8)Show, don't tell. Haiku are about moments of objective experience, not subjective interpretation or analysis of those events. It's important to show the reader something true about the moment's existence, rather than telling the reader what emotions it conjured in you.[5] Let the reader feel his or her own emotions in reaction to the image. 
oUse understated subtle imagery. For instance, instead of saying it's summer, focus on the slant of the sun or the heavy air. 
oDon't use cliches. Lines that readers recognize, such as "dark, stormy night," tend to lose their power over time. Think through the image you want to describe and use inventive, original language to convey meaning. This doesn't mean you should use a thesaurus to find words that aren't commonly used; rather, simply write about what you saw and want to express in the truest language you know. 
ABOVE ALL 
Be inspired 
Practice a lot 
Communicate with other poets. 
ADDITIONAL TIPS: 
•Haiku has been called "unfinished" poetry because each one requires the reader to finish it in his or her heart. 
•Contemporary haiku poets may write poems that are just a short fragment with three or fewer words. 
•A Haiku doesn't always need to rhyme. 
•Haiku originated from haikai no renga, a collaborative group poem that is usually one hundred verses in length. The hokku, or starting verse, of renga collaborations indicated the season and also contained a cutting word. The haiku as its own form of poetry continues in this tradition. 
Sample Love Haiku 
•Refreshing and cool, 
love is a sweet summer rain 
that washes the world. 
•Love is like winter 
Warm breaths thaw cold hearts until 
one day the spring comes 
•A bird flies sweetly 
on paper wings. Telling all 
of my love for you. 
•Every day I will 
love you more than you could know. 
We are here as one. 
•The softest whisper 
beckons me closer to you. 
I love you, dearest. 
•Vast as a mountain, 
my love for you shines through for 
all the world to see. 
Sample Funny Haiku 
•One shark said to the 
other when eating a clown 
fish: this tastes funny. 
•The bartender said 
to the neutron, “For you, sir, 
there will be no charge.” 
•A question for you: 
Where does Washington keep his 
armies? His sleevies. 
•An octopus went 
off to war. It’s a good thing 
that he was well-armed. 
•A wise man once asked, 
“Why, pray tell, is the sand wet?” 
Because the sea weed. 
•The best way to carve 
wood is extremely slowly, 
whittle by whittle. 
Compiled By: Moses S. Olarotimi 
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Writers tutorial entry; how to write a simple haiku 2

HAIKU AND HOW WE WRITE IT. (PART TWO) Compiled By: Moses S. Olarotimi Help us promote #creativity by liking our page USE SENSORY LANGUAG...

Writers tutorial entry; Limerick and how we write it

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LIMERICK AND HOW WE WRITE IT. 
COMPILED BY: MOSES S. OLAROTIMI 
A limerick is a poetic form that can be particularly fun to read and to write. Limericks are often humorous, mean-spirited, or pornographic. I'll explain the form, and you can d...ecide how down and dirty you want to get. 
Limericks consist of five lines. The rhyme scheme is AABBA. In other words, Lines One, Two, and Five all rhyme with each other, and Lines Three and Four rhyme with each other (in some limericks, Lines One and Five end with the same word and rhyme with Line Two). 
The limerick is a very structured 5 line poem. Originally, according to Wikipedia, limericks were a bit obscene, but that has changed with the times. The first, second and fifth lines, the longer lines, rhyme. The third and fourth shorter lines rhyme. (A-A-B-B-A) 
Creating a limerick is not that hard. The first line usually introduces a person from a place, the third and forth lines have the comic twist and the last line a conclusion. An easy way to start is to make a list of words that rhyme after you set up the first line. 
Here's an example of a classic limerick by Edward Lear, where the first and last lines rhyme: 
There was a Young Lady whose eyes, 
Were unique as to colour and size; 
When she opened them wide, 
People all turned aside, 
And started away in surprise. 
Here's another example by Lear, where the first and last lines end with the same word: 
There was an Old Person of Dover, 
Who rushed through a field of blue Clover; 
But some very large bees, 
Stung his nose and his knees, 
So he very soon went back to Dover. 
The typical rhythm of a limerick is like this: 
bah-BAH bah-bah-BAH bah-bah-BAH 
bah-BAH bah-bah-BAH bah-bah-BAH 
bah-BAH bah-bah-BAH 
bah-BAH bah-bah-BAH 
bah-BAH bah-bah-BAH bah-bah-BAH 
Let’s see a poem that help explain this better: 
There was an old man from Peru, (A) 
da DUM da da DUM da da DUM 
who dreamed he was eating his shoe. (A) 
da DUM da da DUM da da DUM 
He awoke in the night (B) 
da DUM da da DUM 
with a terrible fright, (B) 
da da DUM da da DUM 
and found out that it was quite true. (A) 
da DUM da da DUM da da DUM 
Here is a simpler way to go about writing a Limerick 
For example, I had wanted to make a poem for my brother, Ted. I made a list of words rhyming with Ted: 
Bed Instead 
Bread Led 
Red Fled 
Read Lead 
Fed Ned 
Dread Wed 
And so on….I put down the first line: 
There was a sweet guy named Ted… (after that it practically wrote itself.) 
Who would rather lead than be led 
Along came Patty 
Ted got a bit batty 
And now he follows instead. 
This is a poem and limericks especially lend themselves to poetic license. 
One of the best poets to use this device was Dr. Seuss. In “How the Grinch Stole Christmas”, he talks about how the Grinch was in Cindy Lou Who’s house and he was taking her things. 
“And the Grinch very nimbly 
Stuffed all the presents one by one 
Up the chim-bly” 
Of course the word is chimney. Many times I have my 2nd graders correct me…I simply tell them chimney doesn’t rhyme with nimbly! 
Words-places especially-can be made up to rhyme, as with this limerick (author unknown): 
There once was a girl from Devrizes 
Whose breasts were of 2 different sizes. 
One was small 
And of no use at all 
The other was quite large and won prizes. 
Is Devrizes a place? Who knows but the syllable count and rhyme work! 
The bottom line is - limericks are fun and easy to write. Try it and see! 
COMPILED BY: MOSES S. OLAROTIMI 
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Writers tutorial entry; Limerick and how we write it

LIMERICK AND HOW WE WRITE IT. COMPILED BY: MOSES S. OLAROTIMI A limerick is a poetic form that can be particularly fun to read and to wri...

Scenerymania entry; Butterfly robbers 2

Muchos Calidad: 
He sat down carrying his wide gapped gob on his 
neck, wearing on a bright look, 
well' he said, ''manners from above is 
descending, 
remove head-dress to embrace it''. 
He stormed into the car, ignited the engine then 
suddenly he stopped, He himself couldn't 
guessed what exactly he's trying to do at that 
time, courageous him, he slammed the trunk 
shut, lock'd the car and directed his gaze 
towards the building as he was equally 
reminiscing 
on some poetic verse which quotes- 
''Slunk i did the earth with my gadding fork, 
tilled the crust for greatness with vim and 
boastful vigour, 
galivanting steadily as our visage seemed hot, 
when you aim a soup of gold in pot, 
and a brunch feast of crystal munch, 
a bloke will strive to loom creamly groom'd, 
adjoin'd being prettily cautious, 
a bulky purse, sweats of post lone moon, 
a winking vault of silver coins against all odds''. 
Blackjesus: 
He held firmly a russian type 9mm luger pistol on 
his left hand, an attending vetenary doctor was 
removing the bullets that managed to pierce 
through his deliquent self, he was trembling with 
dancing lips out of fear,'I I I I.....amm through 
sire', 'are you sure their are no loopholes in the 
treatment served?', scolded Blackjesus, 'yes sir, 
yes sir' he tremulously replied. 
Its now eight o'clock in the morning, he's 
thinking of going back for the money, 'where are 
my guys now? I know they shouldn't have been 
caught, huh!, yeah! The car!...BT-9855', yeah!' 
Thats the number on the plate, i will surely get 
the money back', he was totally sunk in his 
thinking chair, 'is the food ready?' he shouted, 
the cooking via vetenary doctor actually wasn't a 
good cook to start with but in the presence of 
that angel call'd death, many will garnish their 
mums to be spared of their precious but chaos 
filled life. 'Five minutes sir', he replied. Hastily 
with hatred, Blackjesus was looking at him as the 
man excused himself to titrate water waste off 
his body, on entering the comfort station, he 
brought out his phone and dial'd a number, on 
the other end was a coarsed voice that replied, 
'hello, this is area 14 of the state police force, 
how may i help you'....I......'tuuuumb' that's the 
sound of a bullet piercing through his brain, 
standing before his laid figure was Blackjesus 
who pleasurely caressed the trigger of the pistol 
with his left forefinger, he picked up the phone 
and muffled these words into the mouthpiece: 'he 
has done more than heavenly permits, if you dont 
want to perish like him, dont tail me, at my end 
here is a peril point, ha ha ha(he laughed 
sarcastically)'. At the receiver's end was an 
astonished cop afraid of the courageous 
Blackjesus's threat. He quickly pass'd on the 
communication excerpt between them to his 
immediate boss. 
''Dear God, Knockdown the predator that 
devours, 
we the timid prey prays, 
enemy preciously greets, hail the fox-y behaving, 
peace arraigns fear, effort in zilch, 
striving to tackle it, oppression scores in brace, 
anguish 'n' dolor in fresh mint, 
colors of hope we then paint. 
Team A: 
'Code blue' announced the director of area 14, 
we've gotten an intel right away. So easy a job 
was done in tracing the call since it wasn't 
Encrypted. He continued: St. Louisa close, 
mainland, butterfly city, so pepare fifteen 
members of 'A' 
team for the operation. In a blink of an eye, three 
anti crime van were out on the road, the 
vanguard was led by the 'A' team leader in 
person of Officer Michael. 
Muchos calidad: 
Happy him called office off for that morning, his 
bright and embracing visage spouse saw him 
heading back inside and was curious to know 
why he suddenly boycotted the ambition of going 
to work that morning, he said with full 
amazement: Hermione, a thought just chimmed a 
bell in my mind, i think its high time for me to be 
my own boss, i dont think i can do early crows 
job anylonger, tis like i'm fed up, why cant i just 
establish myself. Astonished and dumbfounded 
her stood still fixing her gaze on his, she had 
pledged to support him without questioning, 
come rain, come shine, all the marital vows still 
fresh in her brain as the cojugal ties hasn't 
exceed'd two full moons. She said: Intrinsic, are 
you sure you're doing the right?, 'yes my 
love, would you please come outside and let me 
show you blessings disguising in my trunk?', he 
added. 
Hermione's eyes couldn't believed what she saw 
as amazement cloaked her emotions, sharply she 
retorted: Intrinsic(muchos calidad's nick), are 
you sure you're in your right senses?, we need to 
move out of here immediately, this isn't mannas, 
tis rather the handiwork of men, i can see 
shadows in our trail, everyone else seemed like 
an antagonist coming after these lifes of our two, 
in a matter of time, the owner is coming back for 
it, so a must we should double up'. It's as if two 
opposite charged wires had touched in Calidad's 
inner pate, bewilderment in his eyes as he rushed 
inside then into his workshop, the dame watched 
him in sheer amazement as he brought out a 
spare tyre, a 17-18 wheel spanner and a 
superhydraulic car-jack, he quickly replaced the 
deflated tyre and faced his companion, ' tis like 
we're good to go'. As far as i know, obliging 
Hermione too was a sharp bitch', sitting 
beside Intrinsic as they enjoy'd a smooth drive, 
for almost forty minutes, they whispered nothing 
to one another, both were deep in thought, 
Hermione broke the silence as she asked, 
'Intrinsic, where are we heading to?, 
'an hotel where we shall plan on an absconding 
mission', he replied. 
Itsdenty: 
In a boggy vegetation where liveth majorly 
fishermen, there was an old shack whither in it 
hover'd equal mixture of fishlike aroma and 
sawing dust as the breathing gas for the 
occupants relying on the air space, Itsdenty 
could be seen with the aid of the beams of 
ultraviolet that manouvred their ways in through 
different angles of slit in the horizontally laid 
planks used in constructing the shack. He woke 
up with bandage around his left shoulder, he 
yawn'd as tears ringed his sight, the first thing 
that came to his mind was the money, last grace 
he did for the group was hidding a tracker on the 
money bags, so anywhere the money might be 
carried too, the location would easily be traced. 
'Is anyone out their, he yelled, a rough, rugged 
looking man appear'd to him, he continued; who 
are you? The man displaying a wry face of partial 
ire answered while squeezing it, i'm Israel', 'Why 
is your face wrinkled, do you want me to iron it 
out for you? Jokingly Itsdenty said, i just need to 
know who you are for helping me and putting me 
here, i meant no harm so i couldn't figure out a 
reason why you should be angry, where am i?', 
'king's port', Israel replied, 'i saw you on the bank 
yesternight while you've passed out, so i brought 
you in, removed the bullet in you and dress'd 
your wound when i realized you're still a living 
thing.' 
'Oh! Obrigado my dear, gracias, i really 
appreciate your kind gesture, ehmmmm please i 
need you to continue the good work by getting 
me a computer system, be it a laptop or desktop, 
Itsdenty stressed.' 'Hmmmmmmmm, you'll have 
to wait till evening time before i can assure you of 
one, Israel replied.' 
A snag didst occured few seconds later has 
booming sound shrilled the environment and it 
polluted the surrounding air, the noise was 
drawing nearer as you can easily hear the 
sentiments of the approaching mob, they were 
few men, all nine in number, they were coming to 
destroy Israel who seems to be the fish friend on 
the sea, fishes and sharks always love to clamp 
inside his net, and his shack is always full of 
kinds of fishes, Many has approach'd him to 
share his super technique with them for a 
ransom but Israel had nothing to tell them, now 
they harbored the believe that he is a kind of 
wizard who is having a coquetting affair with a 
water goddess and thats why the evil wench had 
been generous to him alone. Israel cried out, 
'please tis like end has come for me, you need to 
find your way now', Itsdenty smiled, 'let them 
come 
he said, i will show you who your visitor is', 
'really? his face lightened up a bit, An elephant- 
like 
pate guy kicked the wooden door opened, 
through which they marched in, they 
were all holding weapons of different kinds, Israel 
was shivering trying to figure out in his brain the 
first word of our lords prayer in the bible, my 
father...no!...my mother who sat in 
heaven..uuuurgh! No!..he consistently stuttered. 
Itsdenty spoke out, 'hey you quarterwitted big 
headed guy, are you crazy? You wanna break 
that door or what? Huh?' 
They looked at 
eachother and laughed aloud, hahahahahaha, 
Itdenty cut in again as he scolded, 'shut up!' 
these two words ran a deep chasm has it shook 
their spine, seeing him has a one handed fellow 
made them laugh and now the audacity he had 
to yelled at them really woke their angst, they 
charged at once against him, he ducked blows 
and graced punches in series on their faces, 
giving many bruises while he was unscathed, 
they were filled with surprises as they ran away. 
Hormobah: 
This fat-neck'd guy with a wounded right hand 
woke up on an executive bed in a furnished room 
designed with premium arts of best in the 
country. 
Last night, as he stagger'd through the rough 
untarred road to the doorstep of this admirable 
detached duplex, he knocked thrice on the door, 
the last he saw was a boy that appeared before 
him before he pass'd out. 
About half of an hour afterwards, he woke up and 
overheard a doctor who seemed to have just 
concluded a treatment session on him is 
admonishing the family to inform the law 
enforcers about their unwanted guest. The head 
of Thompsin's family reached for the receiver to 
dial the police office as Hormobah sprang up 
from his bed and thrusted the surgery knife with 
which the doctor used in removing the bullet in 
him towards Mr. Thompsin and his throat was 
slitted by it, his wife scream'd as their two kids 
fainted, the doctor couldn't move, he dashed 
towards the doctor and twisted his neck in the 
anticlockwise after which he sent Mrs. 
Thompson forth to heaven as well. 
The fainted kids were tied to the dinning chair 
while he taped their mouth, even if suddenly they 
stirr'd back to life, they wont be able to shout for 
help, he went back to bed and enjoy'd a 
wonderful dream ride. 
The kids has already woken up, tears soaked 
their sleeves as if they've been drenched in rain, 
Hormobah felt pity but the dead ones were too 
dangerous to be spared of their lives, he couldn't 
risk being caught at the expense of being nice. 
He told them, 'sorry kids, i cant keep your 
parents alive, i know i did a very wrong thing but 
i've gat no choice, you're allow'd to come back 
for your revenge in the future, when you're man 
enough'. They hid their gaze in his has he 
removed the tape covering their mouth and 
walked out of the house. 
Wahid: 
After crawling out of his car in the depth of the 
sea, he was too exhausted to swim through to 
the bank, he passed out along the line, a group 
of merchants on a voyage rescued him has they 
headed towards north of the globe. One of them 
has heard about night fish hunting and thought 
of it amazing, he threw the line with a crayfish 
bait hoping to lure big fishes but Wahid grabbed 
the rope as his last hope and the hunter thought 
he already had a big catch, he couldn't pull it all 
by himself, so many were ready to help out of 
gluttonous intents, to their surprise it was a man 
pull'd up and not a fish, angry many felt so 
disappointed to the extent that they were never 
ready to check out if he's alive or truly dead, 
many agreed he was dead so push him back 
please, they chorused, it was the hunter that 
gave him the first aid and revived him. On waking 
up the following morning, he saw so many people 
on the yatch, they were moving towards the 
north, he couldn't buy that idea, he was weak as 
well, he thought for some minute then he decided 
to take control of the yatch. The yatch 
comprised of eight cabin, each with five bunks 
each, all should be up to thirty five men on the 
ship. Many were bickering while drinking rum, 
many were having amorous display with an 
opposite sex, he rush'd to the store and picked 
one thin but thick iron rod and an 
'english' (cowboys' pistol) he went to the sailor's 
cabin and smashed the rod on his head 
unnoticed. He moved on silently and killed so 
many people standing isolated by smacking, 
smashing or turning of their necks, he entered the 
main hall where all voyagers were bickering, 
'stouting and suyaing', and spray'd bullets 
amidst them killing all, now he has taken over 
the ghost ship and he's in full control, he headed 
the ship back towards butterfly city, he shouted, 
'this is where i belong'. 
To be continued......
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Scenerymania entry; Butterfly robbers 2

Muchos Calidad: He sat down carrying his wide gapped gob on his neck, wearing on a bright look, well' he said, ''manners fro...

Writer's tutorial entry; make your story plausible and your character real

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If you want your character to do 
something unusual, do it yourself . 
Otherwise, you will never be able to convey - 
convincingly - how the experience looks, feels, 
hears, smells or tastes to the character. True, 
you might not wish, personally, to flee a drug- 
crazed axman or abseil one-handed down the 
Burj Khalifa tower in Dubai. But if it’s do-able, 
do it. 
When I wanted my character to rescue a heron snarled high in an ancient elm, I scaled my plum tree. 
After ten feet, my hair was thick with dust, 
leaves, and insects. (I had never realised how 
dusty tree bark can become in dry weather.) 
My trousers grew green with mould and I 
became massively perforated like St 
Bartholomew with little twigs. 
Of course, I then got stuck. (Branches are never 
as close to hand in real life as they are in 
fiction.) My wife had to rescue me with the 
window cleaner's ladder. 
On another occasion, I needed a thief to climb 
an old staircase with a lantern in his hand. So I 
did exactly that. I found it was necessary to 
step on the inside of the stairwell to avoid 
telltale creaking noises and to breathe very 
slowly (ditto). I also had to tread on the balls of 
my feet (ditto) and to balance myself on the 
banister by my left elbow. (I didn’t want to 
leave tell-tale finger marks.) 
Have you ever dragged yourself across an 
attic floor, gibbering? 
In a different tale, I was minded to have my 
protagonist explore the eaves of an old castle 
in search of dark family secrets. Luckily, I live in an old house. So I dragged myself across a blanket of 18th century dust. My knee went through one of the 
ceiling planks. Below it, I found an orange - 
perhaps the lunch of some bygone builder. The 
orange was entirely hollow. Its inside had 
withered away to leave only a perfect 
mummified shell. 
It nicely symbolised my fictional family - 
immaculate before the gaze of the world but 
rotten within. 
You can't make these details up. You have to discover them. 
So if a detective finds the full mark of a flat foot 
on a dusty stair, I realized, it had probably been 
put there for a deceptive purpose. Because 
people typically climb stairs on the balls of their 
feet. 
All these little points of observation found their 
way into my story. 
When historical novelist Elizabeth Chadwick 
sets her stories in medieval castles, she visits 
them - with camera, notebook and tape 
measure in hand. If she tells you that her hero 
in 1395 wriggled out of a kitchen window of 
Ludlow Castle that was exactly 15 inches wide, 
16 feet above the courtyard and ten paces from 
the main gate, you can trust her. She’s 
measured it. 
That’s one reason she has a loyal readership. 
Apparently, some readers make a point of 
visiting the locations of her novels, just to 
check her measurements! 
Don’t imagine it. Do it. Walk your story, so far 
as sanity permits. And readers will then believe 
you - and your story. 
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Writer's tutorial entry; make your story plausible and your character real

If you want your character to do something unusual, do it yourself . Otherwise, you will never be able to convey - convincingly - how th...

Writer's tutorial entry: Haiku and how we write it

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USE SENSORY LANGUAGE 
(6) Describe the details. Haiku are comprised of 
details observed by the five senses. The poet 
witnesses an event and uses words to compress 
that experience so others may understand it in 
some way. Once you have chosen a subject for 
your haiku, 
(7) think about what details you want to 
describe. Call the subject to mind and explore 
these questions 
• What did you notice about the subject? What 
colors, textures, and contrasts did you observe? 
• How did the subject sound? What was the tenor 
and volume of the event that took place? 
• Did it have a smell, or a taste? How can you 
accurately describe the way it felt? 
(8) Show, don't tell. Haiku are about moments of 
objective experience, not subjective interpretation 
or analysis of those events. It's important to 
show the reader something true about the 
moment's existence, rather than telling the reader 
what emotions it conjured in you.[5] Let the 
reader feel his or her own emotions in reaction to 
the image. 
o Use understated subtle imagery. For instance, 
instead of saying it's summer, focus on the slant 
of the sun or the heavy air. 
o Don't use cliches. Lines that readers recognize, 
such as "dark, stormy night," tend to lose their 
power over time. Think through the image you 
want to describe and use inventive, original 
language to convey meaning. This doesn't mean 
you should use a thesaurus to find words that 
aren't commonly used; rather, simply write about 
what you saw and want to express in the truest 
language you know. 
ABOVE ALL 
Be inspired 
Practice a lot 
Communicate with other poets. 
ADDITIONAL TIPS: 
• Haiku has been called "unfinished" poetry 
because each one requires the reader to finish it 
in his or her heart. 
• Contemporary haiku poets may write poems 
that are just a short fragment with three or fewer 
words. 
• A Haiku doesn't always need to rhyme. 
• Haiku originated from haikai no renga, a 
collaborative group poem that is usually one 
hundred verses in length. The hokku, or starting 
verse, of renga collaborations indicated the 
season and also contained a cutting word. The 
haiku as its own form of poetry continues in this 
tradition. 
Sample Love Haiku 
• Refreshing and cool, 
love is a sweet summer rain 
that washes the world. 
• Love is like winter 
Warm breaths thaw cold hearts until 
one day the spring comes 
• A bird flies sweetly 
on paper wings. Telling all 
of my love for you. 
• Every day I will 
love you more than you could know. 
We are here as one. 
• The softest whisper 
beckons me closer to you. 
I love you, dearest. 
• Vast as a mountain, 
my love for you shines through for 
all the world to see. 
Sample Funny Haiku 
• One shark said to the 
other when eating a clown 
fish: this tastes funny. 
• The bartender said 
to the neutron, “For you, sir, 
there will be no charge.” 
• A question for you: 
Where does Washington keep his 
armies? His sleevies. 
• An octopus went 
off to war. It’s a good thing 
that he was well-armed. 
• A wise man once asked, 
“Why, pray tell, is the sand wet?” 
Because the sea weed. 
• The best way to carve 
wood is extremely slowly, 
whittle by whittle. 
Compiled By: Moses S. Olarotimi 
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Writer's tutorial entry: Haiku and how we write it

USE SENSORY LANGUAGE (6) Describe the details. Haiku are comprised of details observed by the five senses. The poet witnesses an event a...

Writers tutorial entry; how to craft a real fictional word

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When we craft a fictional world for a 
commercial readership, the reader wants to 
believe in our world and mentally ‘live’ in it. The 
novelist Clara Reeve made this point as long 
ago as 1785. 
‘The perfection of [the novel] is to 
represent every scene, in so easy and 
natural a manner ... until we are affected 
by the joys or distresses of the persons in 
the story, as if they were our own.’ 
For example, if you want your character to take 
a bus from Leighton Buzzard to arrive before 
her Luton office opens at 8am, use a real 
timetable. ‘She jumped on the 6.55am Arriva 
and it brought her to Luton at 
7.44am, with just enough time to buy a 
newspaper.’ 
Yes, there is such a bus! If you invented it, 
some reader would be sure to spot the error, 
discard your story in disgust and possibly chide 
you in a web forum. (Before you mention it, the 
photo at right does not depict an Arriva bus.) 
But if you are verifiably correct in all your 
minutiae (even a bus timetable), such tiresome 
pedants will not only indulge your Big Lie - the 
story itself. They may also, in admiration, buy 
everything else you’ve written . 
Authors have used this trick since classical 
times to give their stories credibility. Both 
Homer’s Odyssey and Virgil’s Aeneid built 
fables around a real city - Troy. The fiction of 
Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales cites the real 
roads and wayside inns of 14th century Kent. 
James Joyce consulted Thom’s Dublin 
Directory to find a real Dublin house - vacant 
in 1904 - where he could lodge the fictive 
Bloom and Molly of Ulysses . And so on. 
Problem: It’s easy to research a place we 
know well. But suppose our story is set in a 
location - say Santo Domingo (to take a 
random example) - that we can’t easily visit? 
How can we still discover those little details of 
local colour that are so trivial they are not 
mentioned in guide books - but which are so 
accurate they will convince a Santo Domingo 
shopkeeper that we live next door to him? 
Solution: find the place on Google Maps and 
YouTube! 
The highly respectable poet, Prof Grevel Lindop, 
recently published an enchanting book Travels 
on the Dance Floor . Inexplicably, he 
journeyed around the seediest nightclubs of 
South America - at the age of 61 and by himself 
- to dance the salsa. When back in England 
and writing up his notes, he discovered he had 
forgotten some details of his nocturnal forays. 
(Strange, that.) 
So he did a keyword search on YouTube. He 
discovered amateur videos. They had been 
shot in those very bars, clubs and dancehalls 
where he had sashayed away the night. They 
gave him the local colour to put in his book. 
‘Thank heavens,’ (he must have thought) ‘I 
can’t blame the tequila. There is a pink 
elephant hanging from the ceiling at La 
Sarten! ’ 
(And there really is. I've just found it on 
YouTube.) 
Seriously, YouTube - and other video and 
‘virtual tourist’ sites - offer us powerful ways to 
populate our stories with intriguing minutiae. 
They convince because they’re true . We’ve 
been there. And all without the expense of 
travel (or tequila)! 
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Writers tutorial entry; how to craft a real fictional word

When we craft a fictional world for a commercial readership, the reader wants to believe in our world and mentally ‘live’ in it. The nov...

Poet's corner entry; phoenix on hellish isle

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phoenix on hellish aisle.. 
Since tommorow worries had been an occupant, 
that fogged my mind's sight as it seems bleary, 
parallel i couldn't breathe, it's a hell in the pant, 
i ducked peril throws as it advanced fiercely, 
a fixture was drawn betwixt me and my heart 
grants, 
conjugating success, achievements ovary also 
was hairy, 
so i pull'd the last strand of hair; Godly warrants, 
all the way thither has made the body certainly 
weary. 
.......... 
Slunk i did the earth with my garden fork, 
tilled the crust for greatness with vim and 
boastful vigour, 
galivanting steadily as our visage seemed hot, 
when you aimed a soup of gold in pot, 
and a brunch feast of crystal munch, 
a bloke will strive to loom creamly groom'd, 
adjoin'd being prettily cautious, 
a bulky purse, sweats of post lone moon, 
a winking vault of silver coins against all odds. 
....... 
Slewing at rear crews running to catch up, 
their crows rang as it screeched on my guts, 
many rare events whilst hopelessness is 
obvious, 
i'm clearing that path for you, please hang on, 
without the chase their wont be a why for me to 
move on. 
....... 
Shrilled was my haste to kill these gods, 
slay their hearts and taste their bloods, 
visible lords spanking inviscible flogs, 
sharks of wraths, of frauds, of fugitive words. 
I've planted revenge in my heart deep sore ruts, 
the very one your evil doings habitating within 
has formed, 
in this heart i etched the sentiments of thy 
wrongs, 
it makes me dogmatic and fiery, like a tunnel 
vision, like an arch-demon, 
unleashing our humdinger fistful thrust in their 
unruly mob, 
carnivores clamped with diamond studded claws, 
varying reptiles of sulphuric hoarded venoms, 
all to tussle this impiety at war front, 
favourably safer shall be our future throng. 
......... 
Seeing this phoenix would thread on hellish aisle, 
rebirth in heap of ashes on funeral pyre, 
piercing daggers flow in lyrics of lyre, 
a spasm of 'minax', a thou of eyes for an eye, 
all milords should wear their soul greaves, 
these hiccups easily wont be mimed, 
i hail'd my rabbi's grit, that voiced through his 
words dried, 
he shalt scour'd theft with special smelted 
spears till traces died, 
morale of his like had built a fortress in my mind, 
and I shall step on every footprints he left 
behind. 
....... 
Stronger my helm has smeared proves, 
as i resist their libels with diamond slanderproof, 
they hurt their tendon while marking mine 
Achilles heels, 
quaking hoofprints, greater than horse' is my 
hooves, 
i will pay in ducats of grief and ruled this 
dukedom as it's my fief. 
This tufted ears show my ambition as i 
chameleon'd a lynx, 
my womb host plunged me in a sacred ocean 
greater than 'River Styx', 
think never these heels as my from-birth effetes, 
this kid is kinda invulnerable, no abscess in his 
wish. 
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Poet's corner entry; phoenix on hellish isle

phoenix on hellish aisle.. Since tommorow worries had been an occupant, that fogged my mind's sight as it seems bleary, parallel i c...

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