1/14/2010

by Sarah Benjamin

Since as far as I can remember, premier literature has always been acclaimed with awards and honors. In many ways, a book without an award or recognition of some kind, will never reach the ears and eyes of many people. But obtaining these accolades takes years, the perfection of craft and a dedication to the art of writing. It is with these lofty goals in mind that many English Writing majors, like myself, push their minds to the limit, constantly reshaping and editing sentences and words until we can recite them by heart. It's not only college students that have this obsession, but also anyone that understands that writing is an art form that demands passion and dedication.

Not all of us are granted the leisure of writing for a living, however, and have to fit it into the daily routine of family and work obligations. That's why when I found out about National Novel Writing Month, I was thrilled and encouraged. A deadline was the perfect fire to keep my writing going. But as I sat down and continued to be awed over this, my thoughts expanded to the hundreds of thousands of people who were participating around the world.

In some ways, this was awesome – all these people who want to write! The written word was still alive! But then a horrible thought hit me that continued to linger well into November.

It was probably all crap.

Okay, so I am not so full of myself that I don't realize that I haven't written crap before. All writers probably have written something they would never let the light of day shine on. But I have spent money and time over four years to mold my craft. In my free time I write and read. My icons are not sports players, celebrities or even my parents for that matter. They are novelists, craftsmen and women, writers. They are people such as Margaret Atwood, Raymond Carver, and Virginia Woolf. I do not see writing as an enjoyable hobby I do in my free time. Writing is a lifestyle that many people just don't understand.

“So what do you do for a living?”

“I am a writer.”

“No, really. What do you do for a living?”

“I write.”

So at the end of the month, when all those thousands of people crossed the finish line of 50,000 words, there will be a certain distinction among them months later. There will be those that think they wrote 50,000 words and think it's the best piece of written work they will ever hope to achieve. It may or may not be bound and sold, but inevitably in a few years, there will be something that smells faintly sour in bookstores. Not completely definable or traceable, but present nonetheless.

Then there are those people that crossed the finish line and will look at their work and think, “This is utter crap. I need to fix it.” And months later, years later, they might still be tweaking words and sentences to get it just right. They will have added and taken away. And eventually, when their editor or friends can no longer stand the, “I just want to fix this one thing...just this one thing”, they will grab it from their hands and send it to a publisher. It may take a few rejections before the acceptance, but it is those books that will make it to the award panels. It will be those books that people quote from years later. It will be those books that will beckon other readers to the open arms of the bookstore, their clean, crisp scent warming the blood of the faithful.

National Novel Writing Month is not the end all; to a writer it is only the means to an eventual end. It is the necessary catalyst that writers need to get words on the page. It is what happens after the time is up and the hype dies down that will distinguish a writer from a person who writes.

For more information about how you can participate in National Novel Writing Month or support their community initiatives, go to their website at www.nanowrimo.org.

Wil Radcliffe is the author of Noggle Stones, a young adult fantasy novel named one of the Best Young Adult Titles of 2008 by Midpoint Trade Books. Radcliffe won the David Letterman Telecommunications Scholarship for a script and storyboards featuring his original character, the mad goblin scholar, Bugbear.

Q: What inspired you to write young adult fantasy?

A: Young adult fantasy was what I read growing up; J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, T.H. White and other British authors with initials for first names. I was also heavily influenced by comic books and television shows like Doctor Who, Dark Shadows and Kolchack: The Night Stalker. When I grew older I started getting into Douglas Adams, Terry Prachett and Monty Python. So humor was a big influence on my writing as well.

Q: You have said that you wrote the book as an answer to the many violent-soaked fantasy novels aimed at young readers. Can you elaborate on this? In what way can parents become involved with their children through your book?

A: It isn’t so much that I find other young adult fantasy novels violent or offensive. It’s more the kind of “might makes right” mentality we see overall in our society that I find a bit disturbing. I’m really hesitant to criticize too much, because, as I said earlier , I grew upon comic books, which are filled with all kinds of jaw-breaking violence. I love The Incredible Hulk and let’s face it, that dude is all about violence! But even though I don’t have any real problem with limited violence in young adult material, in order to stand out and be unique, I wanted my protagonists to be thinkers rather than brawlers. There is violence in Noggle Stones, but it’s typically seen as regrettable and unavoidable, rather than something glorious and fun.

Q: Which came first the characters or the book idea? Who draws the characters? What is your relationship with the artist?

A: The characters definitely came first. I created Bugbear when I was in Junior High. He’s changed a lot since then. He started out as a kind of mutated science experiment! But eventually he evolved into the goblin scholar we all know and love. And Manchester who started out as the scientist who created Bugbear, became a failed stage magician. The other characters kind of grew around those two… a love interest for Manchester, a comic foil for Bugbear, and a spunky kid to keep them all together. A variety of artists have drawn the characters over the years.

I drew them myself at first. But as I became more serious about proper marketing, I began contacting professional artists. Ernie Colon is probably the most recognizable, having been the primary artist on the /Richie Rich/ comic book for years. Theo Bain, Fabio Laguna, Eliseu Gouveia, and Ben Glendenning also provided some excellent promotional artwork for Noggle Stones. And recently George Broderick Jr. drew a great ashcan comic that we gave away at Book Expo America. And of course, Darrin Stephens did the outstanding cover for Noggle Stones. I've gotten tons of compliments about the cover.

Q: You are employed as the Creative Specialist at 3RiversArchery.com, the world's largest traditional archery supplier, where you are helping to develop a line of Noggle Stones youth archery products. Discuss how this aspect of marketing helps promote your book.

A: 3Rivers Archery has been very supportive of Noggle Stones. Not only did they produce the archery line, but they financed the production of a Noggle Stones board game, which we’ve been giving out a t book signings throughout the Midwest and in New York at BookExpo of America. When you get the world’s largest archery supplier backing a product line, you get noticed. It’s definitely helped with sales and with securing book signings and interviews.

Q: You recently signed with Alberta- based licensing firm, Cyclone Studios, to develop toys, action figures, and games based upon the novel. How did this happen? When will these toys hit the stores?

A: I actually approached Clayton Brown, head of Cyclone Studios, after reading a post of his on a message board for vintage action figures. Clayton has a lot of connections in the toy industry, so I thought he might be able to help me get a line of Noggle Stones toys started. He read Noggle Stones and immediately signed on as a licensing agent. However, the toy line isn’t going to be out for a while. We have had interest from several toy companies, but we want to make certain we make the right choice. NO rights have been sold as of yet.

Q: You signed copies of your book at the BookExpo of America in New York City this past May. How important is it for writers to engage in such events?

A: EXTREMELY important. Writing a book is really just the beginning of the process. A writer is constantly selling. Not just his book, but him or herself. Whether you’re trying to convince an agent or publisher to take a chance with you, or get a book signing line up. Or secure a licensing deal, it’s always about marketing, branding and selling. Book ExpoAmerica turned to be a great opportunity for me to meet representatives from libraries, schools, bookstores and the media. And that leas to the best kind of marketing possible – word of mouth.

Carlotta Holton is the author of Salem Pact, Touching The Dead and Vampire Resurrection, and is a member of the National Federation of Press Women and an affiliate member of the Horror Writers Association.

By Peter Kusnic

It began with the sirens. The twelve-noon whistle on the roof of the high school had wailed that chilly fall day, pierced his eardrums with a spiteful cacophony, and, sitting down to dinner after a long hot shower, he could still hear them wailing—rattling the silver, the China cabinet, the dim-lit chandelier, the empty crystal wine glasses on the table. No one else could hear it. His mother piled the plates with roasted potatoes and garlic green beans, his father scanned the Sunday newspaper at the head of the table, and Victor and Lily, their hands entangled under the table across from him, beamed with conceit. No one knew. He felt giddy when he remembered that no one knew—just him. His heart was pounding, as if any minute the revelation might pour from the silver gravy boat—his lust, his misdeed—splash their faces, scald them, as it had scalded him that afternoon in the men’s room at the high school track when the sirens went off and so did he.
“Looks great, Dolores,” said Victor.
“Eat up,” she said. “Especially you, Edward. You’ve gotten skinny as a twig away at school.” She forked a grease-glistening hen carcass onto his plate.
“But I don’t believe in eating dead animals,” he said, smirking.
“Edward, now you and I both know that that’s not true,” she said.
The paper at the head of the table crinkled. “Edward, eat,” said his father.
“I don’t want to eat it. I’ll eat the other stuff.”
“After I spent all day cooking it.” Her voice thickened in her throat. “You’ll ruin your sister’s birthday,” she said, sitting down, finally, at the opposite head of the table.
“Eat the hen, for Christ’s sake,” his father said. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Can’t I make my own decisions?”
His father slammed a fist on the table, and Edward jumped. “Eat.” His neck flushed purple. “Now.”
Lily clanked her glass with her fork, her eyes gleaming at Victor’s. “We have an announcement to make,” she said, but Edward zoned out, noticed Victor’s neck as thick and sinewy as a tree trunk, his bicep, peppered with fine red hairs and dotted with freckles, bulging his short-sleeved polo shirt and became disgusted.
The next thing Edward knew his mother was crying. He went for his fork; he did not want her to cry; but then he saw it glinting in the chandlier light. A ring. “A platinum-set, four-carat, princess-cut diamond,” said Lily. She had sprung from her chair, waving her hand before their mother’s hypnotized face. They were engaged to be married.
“Oh, Lily,” his mother said as if about to faint. She cupped her wet face with her hands. “Oh, my baby!”
His father put down the paper and reached over the table to Victor, shook his hand. “Good man,” he said.
Edward was quiet, the expression on his face most certainly one of disgust. Victor was a linebacker turned law student, and since he and Lily started seeing each other four years ago Edward never had anything to say to him. He hated football, detested law, and he knew his sister could do much better.
They passed and poured the bottle of red wine. Edward drank cranberry juice. He had a drive ahead of him back to school.
“Things are shaping up nicely for these two,” said his father as if they were not there, “with Lily’s new job at the accounting firm and Victor’s new position at the Law Review.” He paused. “Edward you should think about law school after next year.”
Lily put her hands together, gasped. “That’s perfect, “ she said. “Victor can help you prepare for the LSAT. And, you know, Edward, you need excellent writing skills to be a lawyer.”
“I’d be glad to help you, Ed,” said Victor. Of all things in the world, being called Ed got him most, seized him at the core and yanked out his entrails. “I know a ton of writers in my program.”
Staring down at the hen, Edward released a hot breath. “That is not the kind of writing I do,” he said, bitingly, and for a moment they sat uncomfortably in silence.
His father raised a glass. “To your children,” he said.
Edward shrunk in his chair, his fork laid on the plate of untouched food; he knew what was coming.
“To our grandchildren. To a promising future,” he continued, and Edward cringed. He hated toasts. He did not raise his glass. He did not say, ‘Here, here,’ with his mother, and he did not smile, he did not glow—not like Lily and Victor across from him, red-faced and exuberant, as they finished their wine with a gulp, leaving what looked like bloodstains around their mouths. The sirens returned, blocked out all that clanking silverware and obsequious conversation as they dug into their hens, breaking bones and slurping juices. He returned to his thoughts, to the lightning speed at which it shot out, struck his cheek, dribbled into his mouth, slid into his left eyeball and tried to impregnate it, to the way it burned and his eye swelled with salty sin. His stomach was turning. It was exhilarating, intoxicating—and no one knew. His left eye began to twitch. He sat up straight in his chair at the dinner table, pushing those thoughts out of his mind, worried his face might give it away. He was ready to go. Take off in the Buick. Head south down I-71 toward Flanders. He needed a cigarette.
His mother was eyeing him. “You know Victor and Lily met their senior year,” she whispered. “That’s right around the corner for you.”
“Right.”
He cut into the hen and released a plume of steam. He sawed off a chunk of meat, put it in his mouth, chewed. It took all of his self control to hold the vomit down.
Once the silver clanked with finality on the plates, Edward was ready to go.
“But your sister’s birthday cake!” his mother chirped. The sun had just set behind the explosive red trees in the picture window and he hadn’t had a cigarette since he sucked one down on his drive back from the track that afternoon.
“Mom, let him go,” said Lily. “He has better things to do, I’m sure.”
“It’s getting dark,” said his father from behind the paper. “Just go.”
Lily sprang from her seat and pattered barefoot into the kitchen. “I have something for you, Edward,” she yelled.
“Something for him,” his father said, “on your own birthday? When he didn’t even get you a birthday present?”
Edward looked down at the frayed ribcage of the hen, dispirited, as Lily pattered back into the dining room with a moleskin notebook.
“He’s poor, dad,” said Lily. “All college kids are poor.” She handed him the notebook. On the inside she wrote, Don’t forget to dedicate your first book to me—Lily. She pecked him on the cheek where it had landed. He felt all the blood rush out of his face, trickle cold into his full stomach. “So when you’re rich and famous you don’t forget your favorite sister.”
Edward laughed. “Yeah, right,” he said. “My only sister.”
“Lester, give him gas money,” said his mother.
His father groaned, peeled a fifty dollar bill from a gold money clip, and held it up between his two fingers.
Edward walked up to him. “This better go in your gas tank,” his father said, and gave it to him in a firm handshake.
When he kissed his mother’s mouth with those lips he had to go; it was too much; it was too close. “Bye, Victor,” he said, clacking down the foyer in his boots. “Good night,” he called, almost out the door, “good night everyone.” And the slam of the front door cut off his mother’s voice pleading him, “Be careful.”

Pete is a student at the University of Pittsburgh. He can be reached at ppk3@pitt.edu

By Carlotta G. Holton
The Kitchen Boy is a gripping work of historical fiction that entails intrigue, loyalty, betrayal and forgiveness during the last days of Tsar Nicholas and Tsarista Aleksandra Romanov. It is 1918 and in their imprisonment in the House of Special Purpose in Yekaterinburg, just on the Siberian side of the Ural Mountains the family of seven is confined with a small staff including kitchen boy, Leonka. Their story is narrated by 94-year-old Michael (Misha) Semyanov, a Russian immigrant living in Chicago who depicts the bloody days of the Russian Revolution and his role as the last living witness to their savage murders.

There has been much written about the possible survival of one or more of the Romanov children. Alexander, however, serves up another spin. In this well written page turner, he resurrects the previously overlooked kitchen boy, spared by the Bolsheviks, who witnessed the gruesome murders and then vanishes from the pages of history.

The author pays close attention to details. Because of the kitchen boy’s lowly position in the household, Leonka was able to see and hear secret things. Citing and alluding to actual letters and notes in French exchanged by the Romanovs the author adds authenticity to his plot. The reader gets a sense of the day to day life during the Romanov’s imprisonment in which they were “crammed in like herring in a barrel” is depicted with descriptions of windows painted over with lime to prevent a view, limited food and exercise is confined to walks in an unkempt garden.

At every turn they are humiliated and reproached. The guards draw Vulgar pictures on the bathroom walls intended to humiliate and test the patience of the doomed monarchy.
Small pleasures have been denied. The Romanov’s loved photographs and according to Alexander 150,000 photos are in the archives in Moscow and Harvard and Yale. Their prized Kodak cameras were taken save for the one secreted by the only son who suffers from hemophelia. Yet through all their incarceration, the narrator assesses, ‘They suffered well, those Romanovs, they truly did.”

While the family’s zealous religious belief and Aleksandra’s placement of icons on the altar are a strength which unites them, it is also used to attack their attachment to the old monarchy. Through the eyes of the Leonka the reader learns of their close family relationship Aleksandra’s religious zeal their nobility within the confines of their ignoble confinement far outshines their regal existence in the palace of St. Petersburg. As much as the kitchen boy cares for the family, as a man he blames the Tsar for the state of Russia and cannot issue forgiveness. “

Intrigue runs rampant with suggestions of staged escape from Rasputin’s daughter and other relatives.

The book hits on some unusual twists such as Aleksandra’s fascination – which turns out to be eerily precognizant - with the violent end of another hated queen; Marie Antoinette. While the French hated the Austrian woman, she was looked upon as the “German bitch who consorted wit the crazy monk, Rasputin. ON a daily basis Aleksandra and her daughters feverishly stitched their “medicines” - the $500 million crown jewels in their corsets, one is reminded of Marie Antoinette’s brief history with the Hope Diamond. .

Alexander humanizes the royal family. Recalling the tsar he says he was “too nice to be a Tar of Russia.” Yet there is a dichotomy of thought between what the young boy lived and what the old man dictates on the tape recorder. He holds back on forgiveness because he blames the Tsar for the state of Russia. “They lost Russia and I for one no matter how badly I feel about what took place, no matter how terrible I feel for what I did, can never forgive them for that.”

Note that Russia was lost because the Romanov’s never realized that Russia was not a 17th century empire, but a20th century industrial power and society>” Put simply, the family was out of touch with the modern world.

There are twists and turns with hope being resurrected like the religious icons Aleksandra puts out for mass, and then cruelly dashed ending with a final abrupt denouement of the family. Their tale post mortem is no less bizarre as bodies fall from the wagon and the family’s resting place is changed three times.

The narrator looks back on his past at 94 when his wife has died and he is ready to reveal the truth of the experience to his granddaughter with a letter and tape recording. Yet is is only a shade of the truth. Katya has questions about the real identity of her grandfather. Why does her son have hemophilia? Did any of the Romanov children survive the night of terror? What became of the jewels and exquisite Faberge egg collection? As she returns to Russia and learns the shocking identity of her family, she discovers there are layers of truth and that sometimes it is harder to forgive others than to forgive oneself.

Carlotta Holton is the author of Salem Pact, Touching The Dead and Vampire Resurrection, and is a member of the National Federation of Press Women and an affiliate member of the Horror Writers Association.

Our Blog of the Week is Contrariwise.org, a growing collection of literary tattoos. I talked with Jen Grantham, the site’s creator.

Q: Are you the original creator of Contrariwise? If so, tell us more about how you first came up with the idea. What inspired the blog? How would you define your role as its “curator”?

A: Yes, I'm the original creator. I purchased the contrariwise.org domain back in high school for a portfolio project. After I graduated, the domain sat unused for several years while I tried to come up with an idea for a website so I could put it in use. Google searching "contrariwise" for ideas brought me to this tattoo, and that prompted the idea for the site. I did a search for "literary tattoos" and found a few online communities and single articles, but no websites specifically dedicated to the topic. So I made one!

Q: When and how was the blog first created?

A: April 2007. The "how" isn't very exciting. I came up with the idea and had the site up a few hours later. I started emailing people whose pictures I found online to ask for permission to use them on the site. I guess word got out, and within a few weeks I was getting thousands of hits a day.

Q: What is the meaning of the name “Contrariwise” and how does it relate to your vision for the blog or your approach to literary tattoos?

A: The name doesn't really have anything to do with the site or literary tattoos. I picked the name "contrariwise" back in high school because I love Lewis Carroll, and he uses it repeatedly in Through the Looking Glass. I thought I'd read somewhere that he actually invented the word, but I can't find that information anywhere now so it's probably not true. In any case, the word is often associated with him. I suppose you could say that getting tattoos has always been contrary to societal expectations, and getting a work of literature inked onto your skin is contrary to traditional tattoos.

Q: Do you have a literary tattoo? If so, please tell us a little about its significance to you. If not, would you ever consider getting one?

A: I don't have any tattoos. I have considered it many times, but as a rule of thumb I won't get anything tattooed on myself if I haven't loved the idea for at least a month. So far I haven't ever made it a whole month, so no tattoos.

Q: What is one of the more interesting tattoos that you’ve come across? Do you have favorites?

A: I'm always drawn to the simpler tattoos, and the ones that come with a personal story. I love this one, and I just posted one a few days ago that someone got for the son he found out wasn't his. I love a good story.

Q: Literary quotes and images for tattoos are pulled from across genres and media (books, politics, plays, quotes, even song lyrics and graphic novels). What separates literary tattoos from other tattoos that might happen to include words? Is there a set criteria for a tattoo to be considered “literary”?

A: This is actually a touchy subject with many of my website visitors. I'm using a very broad definition of literature. If someone got a tattoo of an instruction manual, would I post it? Probably, if it was an interesting textual tattoo. I've posted single words and punctuation before. I love it when people send me tattoos from lesser-known works and even from poems they've written themselves. Generally, if it has words in it, I'll post it. I try not to draw too many lines. Though I do try to balance out the "borderline" posts (things like song lyrics) with tattoos from more well-known works of literature.

This topic came up a lot after I posted a young adult librarian's Twilight tattoo. I received tons of emails and comments from people about how Twilight has no literary merit and shouldn't be featured with writers like Shakespeare. Well, why not? As much as people love to hate Twilight, it's a popular series of fiction novels that has sold millions of copies and won tons of awards. If I'm not allowed to post Twilight tattoos, does that mean all young adult fiction is off limits? What about children's lit? You're probably not going to compare Green Eggs and Ham and King Lear either, but that doesn't mean they don't both have their own reasons to be on the site.

Q: How do you decide which photos are posted? Tell us a little about how many you receive and what it’s like to sort through so many photos and stories.

A: I receive, on average, about 5-10 a day. This number skyrockets when the site is linked on a popular website. When Neil Gaiman linked to my site, I got over 100 submissions. It's overwhelming and to be honest, my selection process is entirely random and makes very little sense. I usually do an inbox search for the first word that pops into my head ("happy" or "hamburger"), which significantly filters the number of emails. I'll then browse through and pick one to post. Reading all of the emails would literally be a full time job. I wish I had more time to dedicate to this project.

Q: A commenter on one of your posts claimed that literary tattoos have become a “trademark” of the emerging “hipster” culture. How would you respond to this comment? Do you see a growing movement in literary tattoos?

A: I can't say I disagree that literary tattoos are becoming popular. A trademark of hipster culture? I'm not sure about that. I've had emails from moms & dads, grandparents, librarians, firefighers, marines, CEOs, university professors, elementary school teachers, and all sorts of professionals. Hipsters definitely don't have the majority on this one.

Q: What, if anything, do you think literary tattoos mean to the floundering world of print? Do you think it speaks to the permanence of the written world? Or is it simply another fad?

A: I don't think literary tattoos mean anything to the world of print. I don't think books are going anywhere - moving to a digital format, maybe, but there is always going to be literature. As long as there is literature and as long as people get tattoos, there will probably be literary tattoos.

Q: Literary tattoos mark an interesting intersection between literature lovers and tattoo lovers. Book snobs scorn those who misapply quotes or who have never read the literary works they tattoo on their bodies. Tattoo lovers often seek to memorialize a phrase or quote that is personally significant. What do you think?

A: I think tattoos are personal. People get them for all sorts of reasons - maybe something extremely significant happened and they got a tattoo to commemorate the event, or maybe they just thought it was pretty. I don't see anyone's reason for getting a tattoo as being less valid as anyone else's. I don't see why someone can't feel a personal connection to a quotation without having read the entire work it belongs to. Who cares what reasons other people have for altering their bodies?

Q: What is your vision for the future of Contrarwise?

A: I hope to update it more frequently! I have lots of things in the works that I haven't had the time to implement yet. I'd like to create a better submission system, and a forum.

Q: What projects are you currently working on?

A: I'm a freelance photographer, so I'm always working on my own projects. Right now I'm working on catching up on my photo editing before Christmas! You can check out my photography site here: http://jengrantham.com

By Amanda Griswold

You didn't applaud between poems but
made affirmative murmurs
Deep in your several throats like
the radiator hum
kicking on mid-October, before
you're used to either
the sound or the cost.

I'm used to neither my
gas nor electric—and savor
the sum of the check every month
the way, as a girl, menstruation in all
its intimate chores was still
blood.

I didn't think much of your poems, although
I kept them—like mail sent here,
to my first apartment, where
it isn't uncommon to find
someone else's
name on the letter. Some previous tenant
who’s left no address.

Amanda Griswold enjoys reading long dead authors and living poets in Buffalo, NY. She can be reached at griswoldam1@gmail.com