Call For Submissions On A Snowy Day

This morning we are seeing the aftermath of last evening's snow. Only a couple of inches for us but a whole lot of folks across the northern and middle tiers of the USA are getting buried in the cold beauty. It is truly beautiful to look out your window right after it snows--pretty as a picture as the old saying goes, but for me, pretty goes just so far. I much prefer summer, even when it hits 100'. As long as I'm in the A/C of course. Nothing spoiled about me, is there?

Snowy days provide us time to stay indoors, if we're fortunate not to have to go to work elsewhere, and give us time to devote to our writing. To kick off the new year, I've got a few calls for submissions for you to look into. Go through your files and see if you have something that might work. Or better yet--maybe you'll be inspired to write something new to send to one of these places. 

For those who have never submitted their writing for publication, it's a daunting process at times and it takes some learning as you go. But every writer started with that very frist submission at some point. If you don't take that first step, you'll never make progress on the path to publication. Now, for today's list. Click on the highlighted print to get the link to read more. Read guidelines carefully.

1.  Whispering Prairie Press  Based in Kansas City, this magazine for the arts and literature is not limited to Kansas City writers. Anyone can submit to Kansas City Voices  

2.  Carte Blanche a literary magazine

3.  Chicken Soup for the Soul  This page will show you the books that need stories. Be sure to visit other pages on the site to get guidelines 

4.  Tablerock Poetry Festival Anthology  Deadline is February 6th--looking for poem about dogs and cats

5.  The First Line  An interesting website that gives the first line and asks writers to finish the story. Check the website and then go to submission page

6.  Fun For Kidz magazines  For children's writers. Several magazine under one publisher. Spend time looking over the website and guidelines

Make Attitude Count In 2014

We're about to turn the page to 2014 which feels like opening a book you have never read before. You're not sure what the book will bring to you but you know you want to start on page one and keep moving on to find out. Same way with those new calendars that have been popping up in the mailbox the last several weeks. 

I looked for a poster and quote to use here today, looked long and hard, and finally settled on the one above. How could I go wrong with a quote from Albert Einstein? Nine words filled with wisdom and darned good advice. Which brings me to today's topic--attitude. Yesterday's post talked about reviewing your writing world of 2013. I asked you to look at the things you liked and those you didn't, then think about making changes.

One of the most important change is your attitude. My friend, Lenore Skomal, writes a column for the Erie-Times News in Erie, PA. In a recent video version, she made the comment If you say you can't, then you're right. We often talk ourselves into defeat before we ever begin. Easy enough to reverse the quote into If you say you can, you will. The hard part is that you can say it, but you must also believe it. That might take some practice. 

Make a poster on a sheet of paper of one of the sayings and place it where you see it every day. Put it where you darned near trip over it so there's no chance of missing it. Teachers use motivational posters on bulletin boards, classroom walls and doors, so why shouldn't you? Each one of us can use some motivation and having those words visible can only be helpful.

When I was sixteen, I worked in a dress shop for a man who used one phrase over and over again to motivate his sales staff. Beleive me, we girls got fed up with hearing Mr. Breen say Success comes in cans, not can'ts. He'd nod his head so hard when uttering those words that his jowls literally shook and we girls had to sometimes bite our lips to keep from laughing at the poor man. But his words have come back to me over and over again through the nearly six decades since I first heard them. Good advice again in a mere six words.

Attitude is nothing more than choice. You can choose to have a good day when you get up in the morning or you can choose to be a grump all day. Choose the more positive route and your life is going to be a lot more pleasant. Choose to believe that you are going to be a better writer this year, that you are going to submit more of your work to editors, and that you'll try new paths in writing. You'll most likely end up having more successes than failures.

Regarding those failures--take the positive attitude with them, too. They're not worthless. Uh-uh! You can learn from them if you step back and take a totally objective look to figure out the why and how whatever it was didn't make it. And you've got the bones of another piece of writing. Add more to it and maybe you'll turn it into a successful venture later on.

Stop listening to that voice of doom in your head that keeps telling you that you can't....... Kick that despairing voice right out the door and make positive choices. Make 2014 a year to remember.

Do Writers Benefit From A Review Of The Past Year?

What happened in your writing life this year?

During the final days of each calendar year, newspapers and TV journalists inevitably do a wrap-up of news that occurred that was of importance or interest. Some people enjoy the looking back but I have never been among that crowd. Nope--I'm done with this old year has been my attitude. Let me get on with the new one. What happened this past year is water over the dam. It's done and I can't change whatever happened, be it good or bad. I don't want to revisit any of it.

For a writer, that's a crummy attitude to have. I admit that I have finally learned to go back over my writing year with a considerably better results than for what's in the news. I know now that I can learn from whatever occurred with what I wrote, what I submitted for publication, and which ones made it as well as which came bouncing back to me. It took me several years into my writing world to step back at the end of the year and make those assessments. I started doing it only when I realized how much my next year would benefit. 

I didn't start reviewing the old year because of a personal epiphany. It was no brilliant idea of my own device. No, I read in writer's newsletters over and over about other writers setting this task for themselves. I took note of the writers in my critique group who mentioned their year end review. It finally hit me that, if so many writers were doing this, there must be some worth in it. Some of us need to be bonked in the head before the light dawns!

I waded into this unknown territory cautiously at first. I did a general look-back one year. The next year, I went a little deeper and found to my surprise that I noticed several things about my writing and the submissions I'd made. Little red flags popped up here and there. Besides seeing what I might have done differently, I also had some reasons to be happy with some of what had happened during the year. It didn't take too long to change my attitude. Each year, this review is easier to do because I'm more aware of what I'm looking for but often something entirely new will emerge.

I'm now a proponent of reviewing your personal writing world for the year that is about to conclude. It's not true that you can't change what happened. Of course, you can't undo the negatives of last year, but you can most definitely make changes in 2014 to improve on what you deemed as 'not so hot' ideas in 2013.

One way to begin making those changes is to make an attitude check. In tomorrow's post, I'll look into the ways you can do that as you prepare to move into the new year. 

What will 2014 bring to your writing life?

Do You Remember Your Teachers?

Do you know her name today?

Remember him?

How many of your teachers do you remember clearly? Can you name them? Are the ones that come to mind first the teachers you loved the most or the ones you disliked? Have you given any thought to what they did or didn't do for you that shaped the person you are today? 

We spent a year, occasionally two, with an indivdual whose job ws to instill information and skills into our head. Then they watched as we moved on to the next level and a new class entered their classroom door with the process beginning all over again. 

The recent death of a classmate who was a part of my grade school years triggered thoughts of the teachers we had in the 9 years he and I and the rest of our class attended Lincoln School. No matter that it was decades and decades ago, I could visualize each teacher so well, could hear their voices as they instructed, scolded and praised the students in their care. Our teachers of long ago deserve a special section in our Family Memories Books. They influenced us in so many ways during that time and since. 

Sub-divide this section into grade school, high school, college, grad school--whatever befits your situation. 

I would start my own section about the grade school teachers by making a list, jotting special notes on each teacher and then later go back and write a fuller account. Something like this:

Grade School

Kindergarten:  Miss Horst, a longtime teacher with prematurely silver hair, perfect makeup and wardrobe. Stern yet loving and beloved by all her students. Erect posture, a commanding voice. She had her students put on a circus for parents each spring.

1st grade:  Miss Curto, a brand new teacher, brunette with long, wavy hair. She taught me how to open a new book, how to care for a book, how to respect a book. And she taught me to read, for which I am ever grateful.

2nd grade:  Miss Vruink, nervous, strict, smacked errant studnts hands with a ruler, slapped my cheek for talking too much. My father came to school and raised cain with her and to the principal. She was gone the next year. The best Valentine experience ever in her class.

3rd grade:  Miss Marshak, tall and slender, long dark hair. Had no control of the class, shrieked at us often, had to take a few weeks off after what was termed "a nervous breakdown" She had great art projects.

4th grade:  Miss Alberts, the teacher everyone hoped to get in the 4th grade. Silver hair, longtime teacher who believed in hands on experience to learn about historical events. We made soap and candles like the pioneers had done. We produced plays bringing history to life. She was patient and kind and greatly loved. Her voice was soft, yet commanding respect. Her love for her students was obvious.

5th-6th grade:  Mr. Biddinger, one of my all-time favorites. The first male teacher in the lower grades in our school. A navy veteran of WWII, had gone to school on the GI Bill to become a teacher. Everyone adored him and the new teaching methods he brought to us. We learned through playing games he devised. Parents worried about that but we learned more with him than any other teacher. We had hamsters in his class, and we learned much about the care and treatment of pets.

7th & 8th grade:  Miss Gentle for English--thin as a stick, harsh voice, little control over the class. Miss Peterson for Library--middle-aged, strict but fair, married during our 7th grade year and became Mrs. Peterson, married a man with her same name! Miss Stange, who suddenly became Mrs. Dussias in her fifties. She taught Social Studies with an iron fist. Rarely smiled, all business but a good teacher. Miss Smith, the math teacher who had a way of being strict while the same time friendly and helpful and a fine teacher of all math-related things. Mr. Fengel, the music teacher, who was a funny little man who ended up marrying Miss Gentle at the end of our 7th grade year. So, in 8th grade we had both Mr. Fengel and Mrs. Fengel. Josephine Costanza was the girls gym teacher who barked at us constantly. She, too, married and became Mrs. Walker during our 8th grade. Maidie Johnson, the Home Ed teacher was elderly and had severe arthritis. Her pain made her one crabby old lady. 

Each of those men and women hold a place in my memory bank. I know now what they did for me and that they are a large part of who I am today. So, yes, they deserve a place in my Memory Book. 

Start your list like mine above to spark some inspiration to write further, then write a more detailed account of each teacher to include in your Memory Book. 

                                                        

A Poem Written With A Broken Heart

We're all familiar with the Christmas song I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day, the words penned by one of America's greatest poets. But do you know the story of how the poem, that became the song, came to be written? 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's wife died in 1861 from severe burns inflicted when her dress caught fire as she lit the household candles. Soon after, his older son, age 17, ran away and joined the Union Army as the Civil War continued. Longfellow was left at home to raise a younger son. Charley was severely wounded and it was feared he would not live. Still heartbroken from his wife's death and now perhaps losing his eldest son, the poet wrote the poem in 1863.Writers often deal with grief by writing. It was much later that the poem was set to music as a song. The fourth and fifth stanzas were eliminated from the song as they speak of the Civil War that was raging at the time the poem was written and it was kept as a Christmas song, not one of war.

Christmas Bells

  by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play, 
    And wild and sweet 
    The words repeat 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

And thought how, as the day had come, 
The belfries of all Christendom 
    Had rolled along 
    The unbroken song 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

Till ringing, singing on its way, 
The world revolved from night to day, 
    A voice, a chime, 
    A chant sublime 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

Then from each black, accursed mouth 
The cannon thundered in the South, 
    And with the sound 
    The carols drowned 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

It was as if an earthquake rent 
The hearth-stones of a continent, 
    And made forlorn 
    The households born 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

And in despair I bowed my head; 
"There is no peace on earth," I said; 
    "For hate is strong, 
    And mocks the song 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!" 

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: 
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep; 
    The Wrong shall fail, 
    The Right prevail, 
With peace on earth, good-will to men."

A Writer's Christmas Wish List

It's Christmas Eve day and Santa is double checking his list for all the good boys and girls and a bunch of us grown-up kids, too. If you've been bad this year, there's no more time to make up for it. What it is today is what it is!

Here's my Christmas Wish List for all my writer friends. I wouldn't mind some of these items for myself, as well. A few are definitely dream items while others are very possible.

1. Inspiration to write every day

2. A publisher knocking on the door begging to buy your book manuscript.

3. Editors so happy with your work that they write to ask you to submit

4. Being able to write a good first draft

5. Story ideas on a regular basis

6. The ability to overcome the rejections that arrive

7. New markets for your writing

8. A new mentor

9. Paying publications rather than non-paying

10. A better vocabulary to draw from

11. Perfect punctuation

12. Marvelous mechanical skills of writing

Maybe you can add a few more to your Writers Christmas Wish List. May you get at least a few of them.

Why My Children Had Only Half A Daddy One Christmas

Ken in Lahr, Germany

Today, I'm posting a Christmas story that has not been published. Yet! It's a memory story of a Christmas when our children were young. It was a year they only had half a daddy for Christmas. Read the story and find out why. 

Half A Daddy For Christmas

By Nancy Julien Kopp

   

 Christmas Eve finally arrived. I’d finished baking, the gifts were under the tree, and we’d carried out our family tradition of driving around to look at homes ablaze with holiday lights on the way home from church. Our two children were out of the car as soon as Ken pulled into the garage. We followed close behind, reaching the kitchen just as the phone rang.

   

 Ken answered, and after a short conversation he said, “Thank you for letting me know.” He turned to me. “That was the nursing home. One of my customers passed away tonight, and I’ve got to let the family know.”

   

 Ken headed a trust department in a bank. He needed to inform family of the death of a customer as soon as possible. But it was Christmas Eve! The lady who died had only one relative that he knew of—a sister who lived far away from our state of Kansas. He needed to talk with her and find out if there were other living relatives.

The kids were in the family room shaking packages under the tree, but I didn’t bother to tell them to keep their hands off the gifts as I usually did. I waited, anxious to hear what he was going to do.

    

“I haven’t got the heart to call with news like this on Christmas Eve. I’ll wait til tomorrow. I’ve got the sister’s number in the file at the bank.”

   

Kirk and Karen abandoned the gaily wrapped presents when I offered them Christmas cookies for a bedtime snack. Their dad didn’t join in. In fact, he turned on the TV and said very little to anyone.

    

Ken spent a restless night and beat everyone out of bed. When the kids and I got downstairs, he had a fire blazing and Christmas music playing softly. Our children checked out what Santa had brought them and what he’d left in their stockings while I put the coffee on. Next, we opened gifts but it felt like there was only half a daddy in the room. His mind dwelled on an old lady in Seattle.

    

After I served a big breakfast, Ken left for the bank to make the phone call to Seattle. I hoped the light of Christmas Day made it easier than the darkness of Christmas Eve.

    

The kids played with new toys while I made some preparations for our mid-day holiday dinner. We’d call our families back in Illinois later in the day. An hour went by and well into the second hour, I started to worry. The bank was locked, but Ken had his own key. He was there all alone, and what if the police saw a shadowy figure inside? What if they shot first and asked questions later? Just as panic grabbed a tight hold on me, he walked in the door. Even though I noted the concern on his face, relief washed over me.

 “I called the sister,’ he said, “but I couldn’t get her to understand. I think she has dementia. I have to call again.”

   

 Kirk wanted his dad to play a new game with him, but his request was met with, “Not now.” An unusual response from a caring dad.

    

I listened to Ken talking to the woman in Seattle while I peeled potatoes. His kindness and his patience seemed to never end as he tried to make sure the lady actually understood his message. After many repetitions, he finally gave up and ended the call. He paced the kitchen and passed right by a dish of fudge on the counter, something he’d never do under normal circumstances.

    

“All I can do is see if the Seattle police can get a social worker to go out and talk with this woman.”  He needed information about any other family before funeral arrangements could be made, and I think he also felt a moral obligation.

    

He called the Seattle police department and spoke with an officer there who told him there were no social workers. “It’s Christmas Day!” His voice was so loud I heard him across the room and that’s when my husband ran out of kindness and patience.

    

In a raised voice, he informed the officer that both of them were working even though it was Christmas Day and it’s a sure thing that there’s a social worker on call. Both our children listened with wide eyes. This was not the daddy they knew. The call ended with the policeman’s assurance that the task would be taken care of before day’s end.

Christmas Day went on with a special roast duck dinner eaten on the good china, phone calls to and from family and quieter than usual children. They were well aware they had only half a daddy this Christmas.  His mind seemed to center on what was happening in Seattle in the apartment of an old woman who’d lost her sister.

    

The next day at work, he received a call from the social worker who’d made the visit. She assured him that the sister had finally understood the sad news she’d brought.

    

That Christmas, my husband’s kind, patient way with a stranger felt like another gift, one that did not come wrapped in shiny paper with a big bow, but one that I loved and treasured then, and still do. Our children may have only had half a daddy that Christmas, but over the years he’s made up for it.