Victoria A. Hudson's Blog, page 23

First Look at The Republic

Here is the first chapter of a work in process and my first dive into the novel genre. (Language warning.)

THE REPUBLIC

Carefully dating the page, November 22, then it was added to a sheaf of papers sealed into a priority mail envelope on the table. Redundant hardcopy backing up carefully written emails and tweets scheduled to go out across the spectrum of the internet. Then, picking up the weapon, the soldier carefully steadied the Dragunov on the firing point. Reaching, a fist beat into then massaged the sand bag brought for better support. There would be two shots. Both moving targets, though at a slow, steady pace no faster than what a fit man or woman could jog. Shot two taken before knowing the outcome of shot one, waiting to determine the accuracy of the first would only negate the opportunity for the second. The second shot would be taken without sighting. Faster to slide the barrel swiftly against the aiming point, firing as soon as contact was made and trust that the calculations were correct and the sighting made earlier accurate. Then, they would come. Fast and furious, adrenaline pumping with weapons more than ready, they would find her. Might not get past that first moment. The story though, the story of the intent behind the act would. The words a churning bit of electron spamming across the web were set to erupt at exactly the time the target was due centered in sniper rifle sights. This time, truth would be known.

/…/

The motorcade made its turn down Elm Street in Dallas towards DealeyPlaza. Unhappy Secret Service Agents tightened their positions at the corners of each vehicle, listening intently to the chatter coming through their earpieces as each station checked in, verifying all quiet and clear at each position. No suspicious activities, no unidentified people in unsecured locations. Snipers and spotters on surrounding roofs scanning the area level, above and below the route looking for changes, discrepancies, awkward glances, out of place movements, flashes of light where there should be only darkness.

They were in Texas, and this was the President’s town. He sat like a high school debutante atop the football jock’s convertible waving at his people. Seated in the car behind was the Chief, trying hard to not look as disgusted with this exercise of the emperor mingling with the common folk as he felt. There really was no need for this malarkey anymore. Not like the man had to campaign for votes. There wouldn’t be an election now for a long, long time. There were always men willing to do the unspeakable, and in his job, always money to pay for it. The façade of patriotism was such a powerful tool. A Presidential term indefinitely extended.

The soldier took three quick, deep breaths, felt her fingers tingle and then a fourth breath held a moment before released long and slow. Taking the hand lettered sign with red block letters, “IN HERE,”  strode to the door, opened it and attached the sign to the front of the door. With a chuckle then walked back to the window, currently covered with plywood, and checked the time. A police band radio earpiece was tuned to the not so secure frequency and indicated the motorcade was 5 minutes out. Slowly, with the rifle in hand, took up a shooting position. Subtle sensatons – body settled into the rifle’s weight, the wood of the table, feet flat on the floor. Breathing, respiration, heart beating; it all slowed while thoughts in the mind slowly separated from conscious being. A small part of the brain listened to the police band announcing the time, 12:29:30 and the location of the President’s vehicle. With a whisper of movement, the cutout in the wood covering the window to remove the 6 by 12 inch piece covering the hole created to shoot through. Just enough to allow the first shot then shift fire for the second shot, the far edge of the opening serving as the aiming stake second shot was dependent upon. A vulnerable next 30 seconds. There were were spotters on the surrounding roofs, looking for what was not the same as the last time a check on the area of this building, this floor, this window had been made. Finally a push the button on the radio; no longer needed its chatter. Needing only to breathe, to lose self within the breath. And then to stop, no sound, no rushing of heart in the ear, no heartbeat at all. That was the point the target would be in the cross-hairs and bang, take the shot. Slowly, a finger exerted pressure on the trigger. Quiet mind clear, blank, sufficient to itself with only a target slowly moving towards the center of the cross hairs, entering the circle as one finger brought more pressure to bear. The target continued forward. The pressure increased with an agonizing squeeze. Slowly with the agony of patience a screaming child demanded. The click of the trigger was felt an infinitesimal span of time before the explosion of the shot rang out. The kick of the rifle absorbed, tight into the shoulder as a shift and the rifle moved left to the sidewall of the cutout, moving it surely to the edge, secure in the corner and knowing, as long as it was deep, close into the corner of the cutout, the second shot would be true.

“ALPHA SIX, ALPHA SIX, CHARLIE TWO, REFLECTION SOUTHEAST CORNER, FLOOR SIX FROM THE DEPOSITORY, The spotter on the roof radioed the Command Post.

”YOU’RE SEEING GHOSTS UP THERE, PAY ATTENTION,” The Duty Commander laughed into the radio.

“ALPHA SIX, ALPHA SIX, FUCK THAT SIR! THERE’S A FUCKING REFLECTION THAT WASN’T REFLECTING TWO MINUTES AGO!”

“ALRIGHT, ALREADY! BREAK, BREAK! DELTA THREE, DELTA THREE, CHECK THE DEPOSITORY, FLOOR 6, SOUTHEAST CORNER. YOU’RE THE GHOSTBUSTERS BOYS AND GIRLS.”

The tactical team took the elevator to the 6th floor. Charlie two just earned themselves a new nickname, seeing things from the very window used more than four decades ago. Probably a local cop looking out his own binocs, yet another failed coordination with the Secret Service. The team exited the elevator and started walking towards the last door. The point man suddenly stopped, slamming his hand into the chest of the guy next to him. Just as he raised his hand to point out the sign on the door with three inch red letters, the shot echoed down the hallway.

The door busted down taking half the frame with it as the second shot rang out.

The shooter spread arms out as the first man in ordered, “DOWN ON THE FLOOR.” The rifle still on sand bag was knocked off the table. An agent pushed kicked it aside clattering across the floor. The shooter slowly followed, spreading legs and arms outward, palms up.

“Look, on the chair,” whispered the point man.

The team leader looked and only then noticed. Next to the Shooter was the jacket of the Army Service Uniform. There was an airborne combat unit insignia on the right, a combat action badge on the chest above rolls of ribbons.

His team moved through the room, two officers secured the prisoner on the floor one with a knee to the small of the suspect’s back.

“Clear!” the rest of the team echoed each other as the room was secured.

The shooter was searched and secured with hands behind the back, then two members of the team jerked the shooter up. The trail man behind the team leader gave a low whistle. There was a rack of ribbons on the shooter’s jacket that stood out as a buxom blonde to a 16 year boy. That soldier had been places, done things and been rewarded for it, was that a ‘V’ device on one, no, two ribbons the team leader wondered?

“This was taped to the table,” the second man in handed the team leader a priority mail envelope. He looked at the addressee on the envelope, “To the American People” it said.

Looking at the shooter, standing there calmly, hands clasped behind, fuck, standing at ease like that no indication in hand cuffs; you’d think he was on the parade ground.

“Why’d you do it,” the team leader demanded, pulling the camouflaged cloth away from the Shooter’s head and face.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” he exclaimed.

The solider looked the Tactical Team Leader square in the eye. The silence pulled the attention of the rest of the team.  ”It’s a girl,” whispered the Agent at the door.

“I’m a Patriot,” she calmly said.

End.

copyright 2012

 

Principle vs Profit – KDP Select

Amazon’s KDP Select program enables an author to make their Ebook free for select days in a 90 day period. This garners immense free publicity for the author. I often read about books that have thousands of downloads on the free days. While my book is on Amazon, both in print and Ebook, it’s never there free. No Red Pen: Writers, Writing Groups & Critique IS free as an Ebook everywhere else. Why not on Amazon?  Because if I join KDP Select – the book must be pulled from every other retailer.

The book is intended for students and struggling writers, I want No Red Pen to be easy to access. I don’t want cost, even a couple bucks or 99 cents as a barrier. I’m cautious about a “company” store where products are only sold there and nowhere else. I think it is dangerous for writers to allow their access to the public to be controlled by one entity. I’m standing on principle.

And it’s costing me unknown amount of readers.

In 2012, there were 167 downloads over the 11 months the book was available. There were several instances via Barnes&Noble the book saw dozens of downloads in a day. Instructor use? A free book promotion B&N did? Don’t know. Moving to KDP Select would remove the access in the dozen other markets. How ironic, I may have to reduce markets to one if I want downloads and readership to multiply.  Principle may need tossing to the wayside if I want No Red Pen to reach a wider audience.

Not before June, 2013. After that, I may experiment with KDP Select and up the price of the Ebook to $2.99 with as many free days as the program allows.

Principle does not always pan out.

Independent Creator – Publish an Online Newspaper

Surfing through my twitter feed, I saw something interesting about online newspapers that Molly Greene tweeted. A couple clicks later and all I could say was “COOOOL!” Molly had a guest post by Paul Dorset, a successful author and twitter marketer about a fantastic website, Paper.Li where you can create a curated list from twitter that appears as an online newspaper. Immediately, I set about creating and publishing my own. This is a boon for any indie-author. I’m an independent creator. The idea of easily creating and publish online a product that can highlight what I write, provide a niche service, or publicize a cause or interest is tremendously appealing.

A ton of stuff flies by on twitter once you have more than a couple dozen follows, how do you keep track and catch the important? Lists are a good way, but that is cumbersome and there remains the scrolling through hundreds of posts. Not keeping up with literary magazines was frustrating, so I created the Literary Journal list, an open list of every journal I’ve found on twitter. I’ve added more than 80 but there are scores more. Putting them into the Paper.Li format, I was able to source beyond my list to include others as well using the simple set-up process. This brought the count in Literary Dispatch, my online newsletter, to over 200 journals. The value – many of the literary magazines I send my writing to, I find their calls for submissions via twitter. Anyone can register for an account and build and publish their own paper, free. I opted for the 9 bucks a month so I could customize and remove ads, building my own ad for No Red Pen, Writers, Writing Groups & Critique that links back to a sales site. Additional links on the page link directly back to my web site – a pretty good investment for less than ten dollars, IF Literary Dispatch gets subscribers.

Why add one more widget that demands attention and marketing? I don’t like hawking my book all the time, I’m not the independent publisher equivalent of a door to door salesperson (really, been there, done that). I’ve never liked the constant sales talk from self-employed friends who always have a sales pitch. I do like providing a service that I think meets a need, and curating the literary magazines on Twitter both helps small publications get some notice and creates a resource for finding publication venues.  I think that fills a niche. The marketing advantage is advertising for my book and increased visibility. The writers looking for literary magazines are the audience intended for No Red Pen: Writers, Writing Groups & Critique. Paper.Li is a terrific means for leveraging social media like twitter and, I can source into the feed other web sites as well. Finally, there is the potential to monetize because with the pro level for $9/month I can sell the remaining ad space I don’t use for self marketing. This creates an income stream when leveraging the potential of an online newspaper fed by twitter.

If you’re an Independent Creator too – publish your online newspaper. Come on back and tell me about here.

Paper.Li is a dynamic service with hundreds of possibilities. I see great potential to move my visibility and online presence as an indie author and my book forward.

Read Molly Greene‘s Blog with guest post by Paul Dorset – Create Your Own Newsletter with Paper.Li.

Check out Literary Dispatch and subscribe.

Check out Vicki Hudson – Inditer and subscribe.

Start your own paper at Paper.Li.

A Story and a Storyteller

Noah St. John

Well deserved, young man.

Five Stars – Laura Oliver’s The Story Within

Laura Oliver’s The Story Within is not your every day craft book. This is a whooping roller coaster over the highs and lows of the vocation of writing. Every writer has heard “Show, don’t tell.” I never thought I’d find an entire book on the craft of writing that page after page did just that over 26 topics of writerly discussion.

Full disclosure – Laura sent me the book, after I sent her my book No Red Pen: Writers, Writing Groups & Critique. We have never met, I’ve never been in her workshops, or as best I recall heard her speak. I don’t particularly like craft books as in general they make me sleepy and thus can only read them in small doses. (I’m on my second month reading a book on Poetics.) I was professionally interested in her work. I might learn something, more likely, I’d find something I might be able to use as I develop my own professional writer and teacher persona.

The Story Within is a page turner, can’t put down, tour de force packaged in of all things, a writing book. The entire book is a treasure trove.

Oliver starts with science, physics to be exact. Wow. The theme to that sitcom with the brainy nerds soundtracks the introduction for me. I picked up the book off a stack of a dozen or more waiting for my attention to read for a few moments in the bathroom as I was too lazy on my way to bed to turn on the bedroom light. Twenty minutes beyond the two minutes I’d allotted to read the intro I’m in bed, wondering how I can carve out time the next day, a non-preschool day, to read more. I find a way. While the toddler runs the electronic device’s battery down with games, videos and interactive books and we are cuddled together on the couch, I read the first half. Quiet Time after lunch gets me to the end of the book. I’ve laughed, cried, and been on the edge of my metaphorical seat. Along the journey, for it was as tumultuous a journey as any novel that has kept me way past bedtime, I kept experiencing ‘ah ha!’ moments. These were then filed away because what I was reading was what I could use in my own writing practice. Sometimes new ideas, sometimes just a different perspective, sometimes a reminder of something I already knew about but perhaps had forgotten or misplaced.

Laura Oliver is a skilled, imaginative writer with clear confidence, regard, and respect for her calling. This is important as her writing is matter of fact not presumptuous.  Each chapter is a conversation in a best friend’s or long time neighbor’s kitchen. She interweaves her prose with quotes and passages from other authors’ work in such a way that a tapestry of craft emerges. Threads from the page link with the reader’s own experience creating what every writer I believe is seeking – connection. The individual is the collective universal experience. She adroitly creates doorways and windows into the writing process, each one an invitation. When a passage to illustrate the navigation of a story depicts a mother gathering her son in her lap, I am transported to my daughter’s bed, holding her safe so she can quiet and let herself  be sleepy.  Then I lay her back down, leave her to get there on her own, walking out to a quiet whisper of “Good night mommy.” The chapter’s point, the story entry is a direction not a conclusion, resonates.

I’ve always considered, no wait, I’m pretty damn proud, of my ability to create dialogue that is realistic. That’s not a chapter I expect to get much from when reading a craft book. I learned three new ways to consider and create better dialogue from Chapter 7. And, I have to hunt down a copy of Alan Elyshevitz’s story, “Noah’s Ark” from which Oliver drew for example. I have to know what happens.

In chapter 17 I’ve become so emotionally attuned to the examples and writing passages that in this chapter entitled “Spirit: Caring for the Writer” when she encourages “So get it all down now even if you don’t know what you are going to do with it. Capture on paper the first time you heard your son laugh, your parents harmonize to ‘Moon River,’ the smell of a dog who has rolled on a dead fish.” I am instantly transported. My daughter’s laugh, my mother’s voice, my favorite dog who rolled on a dead fish in January and stank so bad I had to give her a bath standing in a tiny shower because it was too cold for her to sleep in the truck. And was instantly overcome with grief because she has been dead and gone for almost ten years. “Write the damn book,” Laura Oliver says. Because memories fade with the living.

The Story Within promises “New Insights and Inspiration for Writers.” Laura Oliver delivers. Read the damn book. Because this is the book you will dog ear and mark up, will recommend and lend out or because you don’t want to lose, will buy and give away. This is the book for every cohort of writing students, and every emerging writer out there to invest in because it’s one that will not be sold back or garage saled.

The Story Within – New Insights and Inspiration for Writers by Laura Oliver

ISBN 978-1-61564-114-7

U.S. $13.95 CAN $15.50

2011 Alpha Books

War Cats Awarded Honorable Mention

I am pleased to announce that the essay, War Cats, was selected as a finalist in the Adanna Literary Journal’s Women and War competition. War Cats will be published in the upcoming Winter 2013 issue – Women and War: A Tribute to Adrienne Rich. 

Look for Pulitzer Remix During National Poetry Month in April

The Pulitzer Remix is  a 2013 National Poetry Month initiative that will engage 84 poets in creating found poetry from the 84 works that have won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. I was invited to participate and will create 30 found poems from Jean Stafford’s Collected Stories, the 1970 fiction Pulitzer Prize winner. One poem will be posted each day during National Poetry Month in April. Visit the Pulitzer Remix site for information.

Quanie Mitchell wins Emerging Writer Scholarship to SFWC13

 

The quality of the essay in the Victoria A. Hudson Emerging Writer competition is key for finalist selection. Each entrant’s essay is read through in the first round. Essays that are predictable, dispassionate, or fail to illicit imagery, emotion or curiosity rarely make the first cut. Each essay selected for the second round is read again with a more critical eye, similar to how one would read something in a peer workshop or writing group. In this round each is also compared against the rest with the most striking selected for the third round. There is no set number selected, though usually about 50% are cut from all received. In the third round each entrant’s writing sample is also read and this with the essay is used to select for the finalist list. Again, there is no set number that will move forward. Historically, about half will again be cut out. In the finalist round, the essays are again read critically, followed by the writing sample. If essays are very close in quality, the writing sample provides additional insight on the entrant’s writing capability. If there is no clear stand out or if the quality is evenly divided between essay and writing sample, the finalists’ entries are sent for additional reading by one or more readers who are published in their genre. This year’s reader was Amos White, Haiku poet. Input from the readers then is considered in the final judging. There were 24 entrants this year with five tiers of evaluation before the final selection was made.

This year there were two finalists. Quanie Mitchell of San Jose, California was selected based upon the clarity and imagery evoked in her essay. She will receive a registration scholarship to the San Francisco Writers Conference 2013. In addition, she receives a one year sunshine membership at the San Francisco Writers University online writing community and with thanks to BookBaby, a standard book publishing package. Honorable Mention goes to runner up Eric Bratcher of Hayward, California. He will receive a one year membership at the online writing community, San Francisco Writers University.

Next year’s competition opens on September 1, 2013 and runs until December 1, 2013. Guidelines will be posted at http://vickihudson.com/sfwc/  and will generally remain the same as this year’s guidelines.

Congratulations Quanie Mitchell and Eric Bratcher.

Here is Quanie Mitchell’s winning essay responding to the prompt “I write because…”

I Write Because

Quanie Mitchell

I learned to write on my grandmother’s porch, listening to my mother and aunts gossip about the people in church, the people in town, whoever was getting cheated on by their husband, or, whoever’s husband spent all the bill money at the casino and came home with his lips balled up and his hat in his hand, embarrassed to tell his wife that the water was going to be shut off at any second. My grandmother, the ring leader of gossip, would shake her head and say, “That bastard can’t keep a job long enough to keep a pack of meat in the freezer. I don’t see why she won’t leave him.” My mother and aunts would nod in agreement, sip their coffee, swat at the mosquitoes, and shout at each other because the train was passing and no one could hear anything.

Then, my grandmother would suddenly decide that she needed eggs, and my mother would suck her teeth and say, “Didn’t we just come from the store?” But we would all pile into my mother’s Thunderbird anyway, and somehow, the eggs turned into sugar, bologna, milk, and a whole host of other things that made my mother’s blood boil as my grandmother strolled out of Winn Dixie with a basket full. She would say to my grandmother, “Eggs, huh?”

My grandmother would wave the comment away and say, “Your ass.”

I would giggle and peek inside the bags to see if my grandmother had remembered to bring the chocolate candy I begged for (most of the time, it was half eaten by the time she got into the car), and then, it was back to the porch. I find myself glued to the computer most mornings, unable to get my family out of my head and creating characters that are variations of the strong willed women who shaped me. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever written anything that doesn’t involve a trip to the store, or someone saying, “Lord have mercy, chile,” while fanning themselves in the heat. I write because I love to put these women on the page, let their mouths get them into trouble, and find out how in the world they are going to get themselves out of whatever mess I’ve created for them.

All rights reserved.

Find out more about Quanie Mitchell and her writing.

2012 Blog in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The new Boeing 787 Dreamliner can carry about 250 passengers. This blog was viewed about 1,600 times in 2012. If it were a Dreamliner, it would take about 6 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Poem and Short Story Publish

Bay Laurel, an online literary journal of previously rejected fiction and poetry, published the Winter 2012 issue. I have both a poem and a short story in this issue.

The poem, Stone Upon my Heart,  reflects upon relationship, family and loss. I wrote this poem over several months after my wife and I lost our second child in the 13th week of pregnancy in January 2011. This poem was the starting place of a collection I am currently working on that will delve into being the “other mommy” in a same gender family, the experience of being the non-biological parent and what is family today. 

The short story, Captain Harper Says Goodbye, was written several years before the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. This short, short story describes the experience of a military family who must say goodbye before an overseas combat deployment yet the family is hidden and can not be acknowledged. With the repeal of DADT last year, many GLBT families no longer experience what is reflected in the story. Many still do though, as for some, the action of coming out in their military unit remains an action that would invite hostility or negative career impact. The story thus reflects for some the reality that remains for LGBT military members and their families. 

Read Stone Upon my Heart here.

Read Captain Harper Says Goodbye here. 

Bay Laurel online journal here.

Thanks for reading.