Linda L. Zern's Blog, page 13
July 20, 2017
A QUICKIE: Postings That Are Short and Sweet
SPACE COAST WRITERS' GUILD MONTHLY MEETING: The author, Linda L. Zern, singing the praises of active review gathering for your book launch. amazon.com/author/lindazern
July 10, 2017
GRAMMAR HAPPY
Mark Twain wrote a beautiful essay about “Two Ways to See a River.” He complained that by becoming an expert at something and while you do gain knowledge, that expertise comes at the sacrifice of wonder. It’s a beautiful piece of writing because it happens to be true.Becoming a writer with hundreds of thousands of words in your portfolio is like that. It gets harder and harder to read a book riddled with examples of author intrusion. (See! Says the author! Between the lines--sort of! What I’m telling you in this part of the story is that this is the bad guy, who is so terrible that he eats kittens! I mean it! Nod your head if you get it.) Or when an author uses an excessive use of attributes and adverbs, she interjected snidely, moistly, or urgently.
But it gets worse. You start hearing the flaws not just in the written word but also in the speechifying of regular people you’ve been married to for decades—namely spouse types.
For example:
My husband of thirty-plus years, the world-renowned computer analyst, has an expression he uses over and over again when he’s losing an argument with me.
He likes to say, “Oh, get off it!” It’s his favorite point to my counter-point.
All I can think when he uses this phrase during a marital tiff is that the subject ‘you’ is implied, as in, "Oh, you, get off it!"
But doesn't he know that you is a genuinely vague pronoun? So vague that I assume he’s talking to himself and not to me when he uses it. You who? Getting off of what? See the problem?
I can imagine that what he's saying in the heat of the debate is something like this. “Oh, Sherwood, get off it!”
Yeah, how about that, Sherwood? Please note: My husband's first name is Sherwood--like the forest. Crazy right? Get off of that.
And his use of the verb “get,” is also extremely weak in this sentence. Get is one of the weakest of the verbs. My advice to my husband to jazz up his prickly but vague command to me as he goes down in angry flames is to strengthen that puny verb by turning the word get into an action verb of the rip-roaring kind.
“Oh, Sherwood, drive off it!”
“Oh, Sherwood, flip off it!”
“Oh, Sherwood, fling off it!”
“Oh, Sherwood, shove off it!”
While we're at it, what about that pronoun it? What it? Who's it?
Concrete nouns are the building blocks of a rude, thorny sentence, so I’d suggest replacing that pronoun with something sharp-edged and brittle—something resembling a chunk of word cement.
Maybe something like this:
“Oh, Sherwood, pole vault off that Saguaro cactus.” Or “Oh, Sherwood, shove off that red hot poker.” But this takes us into the land of adjectives and advanced description—and that’s a tightrope I’d rather not walk right now.
So, like Mark Twain, I’ve lost the wonder and awe of my husband’s forceful, manly instructions to me during a verbal brawl, and I can only register the grammar funk of his dopey sentence.
Thank you, Mark Twain, for helping me understand the price of knowledge. And like Mr. Twain, I appreciate the irony of loss and gain.
“Since those days [as a riverboat captain] I have pitied doctors from my heart. What does the lovely flush in a beauty's cheek mean to a doctor but a "break" that ripples above some deadly disease? Are not all her visible charms sown thick with what are to him the signs and symbols of hidden decay? Does he ever see her beauty at all, or doesn't he simply view her professionally, and comment upon her unwholesome condition all to himself? And doesn't he sometimes wonder whether he has gained most or lost most by learning his trade?” [Mark Twain, “Two Ways to See a River”]
Ahhh, Mr. Twain, those poor doctors, and computer systems analysts . . .
Linda (Grammar Witch) Zern
To Find More of Ms. Zern's Work: amazon.com/author/lindazern
July 8, 2017
POOL RULES
Our sandbox is sometimes fifteen feet high. There are friendly goats to pet. The swings fit one to twelve children. “Hideouts” and “forts” are freely constructed and outfitted all over the property. Fun is what we do.There are also snakes, bugs, and fire ants. Branches fall from trees. Animals stampede. Mud, muck, and swamp encroach. Thistles sting. Florida is the semi-tropics after all.
In the spirit of summer high jinks and mud hole jumping, I’ve compiled a Zern Farm release form and a list of pool rules. (Please Note: We don’t have a pool.)
THE RULES
If you come to my house, do NOT wear flip-flops. Your feet will not be protected from random piles of animal dung by your “comfortable” footwear.
If you come to my house, do NOT wear flip-flops. Fire ants enjoy free rides on flip-flops. It’s a scientific fact.
If you come to my house, do NOT wear flip-flops. Stinging nettles, pigweed, and sand spurs do not respect your “comfortable” footwear. I do not respect your “comfortable” footwear.
If you come to my house, do NOT wear your brand new, bedazzled superhero t-shirt. Stinging nettles, pigweed, and sand spurs grow in DIRT, which is dirty, also grubby. You will get dirty. Your clothes will get dirty. Dirt will touch you in a myriad of ways. Dress accordingly.
If you come to my house prepare to be booed if you proclaim yourself “bored.” Only boring people (or teenagers) are bored at my house. If you are bored prepare to be given a shovel or a post hole digger and put to work.
If you come to my house prepare to be hot. It’s Florida. Duh.
If you come to my house, understand that animals will be roaming about doing what animals do. Yes, my buck goat stinks. He stinks for a reason. He is not confused as to his gender or life’s work. He lives to eat and make little goats.
If you come to my house be aware that tree bark is scratchy, tree climbing not without hazard, and chiggers live in tree moss. Bring Bandaids.
Random Warnings:
BEWARE! THE YAYA BITES.
Don’t make me traumatize you!
Fight at your own risk.
And if you turn over something to look for worms or beetles or other wiggly creatures then, when you are done, turn that log, stepping stone, or lawn chair back over. Leave things the way you found them.
Sincerely, The Management
Linda (Sharp-Tooth) Zern
July 6, 2017
DOOM STARTS WITH D
I’m a writer. I write about life, love, truth, and conflict. I can imagine just about any eventuality given enough time and quiet. It’s a problem. When one of my gang is late for a family meeting, dinner, or activity, I can have them stripped naked, bleeding from their temples, and thrown in a ditch before I’ve set the table. I can’t help it. It’s a job hazard.
My imagination is an excellent asset, except when it’s not.
When creating a story, an author is encouraged by the gods of writing to take her beloved characters, chase them up a tree, and then throw rocks at them. Sometimes those beloved characters get stuck up in that tree, and the author has to figure out how to get them out of there. If a rock hits them in the head, they fall out of that tree dead.
What? It happens. In my brain.
After writing my first book in the Strandline Story Series (Beyond the Strandline) I had an advanced copy reader email me and ask, "But you're such a nice lady, how can you write such terrible things--and about children?"
Because, when writing apocalyptic grid collapse scenarios there are a lot of people up trees, even children. If the lights should go out, electric quits flowing, and the pumps shut off the world will stop being quite so fast food convenient and friendly. It's said that the US is seventy-two hours away from anarchy because that's when the food runs out. It's a genre that lends itself to all the troubles necessary to write intense, realistic fiction. Food isn't automatic. Water is life and death. Enemies are endless. Sex is serious business--again.
Prepper fiction is a target rich environment for an author.
Fiction creates an opportunity for readers to explore life events vicariously, to work through trouble and tragedy by looking through the window of a novel into the lives and troubles of characters who've been run up a tree. It is a safe way to prepare, to process, to contemplate possibilities.
My family thinks I'm a doomsday diva, claiming that I've probably dug a secret bunker someplace, where I've stockpiled huge mounds of dehydrated broccoli. No. But if I had dug a secret bunker, I'd hide it under the foundation of the barn and use old freezers as waterproof storage units, but it would be hard because the water table is pretty high in Florida so I'd have to figure out how to keep my bunker dry . . .
See? Up a tree, with people throwing rocks.
Don't think it could happen? Neither did the Venezuelans, the Syrians, the Bosnians, Europe after Hitler, the Ukraine after communism . . .
Linda (Read More Books) Zern
June 23, 2017
June 16, 2017
For Sale
Facebook is a marvelous work and a wonder, full of opinions, ideas, politics, and philosophy. Everyone is talking. A lot of folks are trash talking. Most people are talking at each other, rather than to each other. Some jokers are frothing at the mouth, and still, others don’t talk at all, they just eavesdrop.
When in the history of this world have more people been talking?
The problem: Society has, maybe, never been more uncivil or paranoid.
The answer, according to everyone on Facebook, is that more talking is needed. Facebookers call it dialogue but really that’s just a fancy word for talking. The conventional wisdom is that more talking is needed, and then when we reach some level of excessive talking a wormhole of cosmic understanding will open and all will be well.
Hmmmmm . . . not seeing it.
A Facebook friend of a friend of mine, of anonymous acquaintance, (you don’t know them so quit trying to guess) recently left my church, trashed my leaders, and castigated my beliefs. There was a lot of talking. Please understand; I stand firmly in the camp of freedom: religion, speech, choices.
Your right to talk is sacred to me, but don’t be surprised if I talk back. My friend talked and talked and talked, but there was no reaching of some beautiful wormhole of cosmic understanding. There was no ranting and no raving but there was also no miraculous discovery of common ground. Sad. But true. It’s life and living and I respect that.
Want to know when the conversation got moderate? When the friend of my friend, who is someone no one knows, started selling stuff and suddenly, the agenda changed: You have what I want, and I make what you need. Let’s make a deal. And boom! The world got a little more civil.
If the world wants civil, then sell more stuff. It’s amazing how thoughtful people become when they want your money or your circuit boards or your business. Trade tempers the temper. Historians understand the importance of goods and services that trade hands, open borders, and broaden horizons.
“Trade was also a boon for human interaction, bringing cross-cultural contact to a whole new level.” (Live Science, Heather Whipp)
America has always been a nation of shopkeepers. It kept us civil. It kept us polite. It keeps life personal. Small business keeps us united. Keep that in mind when folks talk, talk, talk about bigger and bigger centralized government.
I have heard that the rule of thumb for those on Facebook, doing business of one sort or another, is to not say anything on social media you wouldn’t say at a cocktail party before the drinking.
Of course, there are ALWAYS exceptions to the rule and people who feel free to trash talk regardless of what they’re selling in their lemonade stands: rock stars, comedians, talking heads, and other curmudgeons.
Let the free market decide.
Linda (Fifty Percent Off) Zern
When in the history of this world have more people been talking?
The problem: Society has, maybe, never been more uncivil or paranoid.
The answer, according to everyone on Facebook, is that more talking is needed. Facebookers call it dialogue but really that’s just a fancy word for talking. The conventional wisdom is that more talking is needed, and then when we reach some level of excessive talking a wormhole of cosmic understanding will open and all will be well.
Hmmmmm . . . not seeing it.
A Facebook friend of a friend of mine, of anonymous acquaintance, (you don’t know them so quit trying to guess) recently left my church, trashed my leaders, and castigated my beliefs. There was a lot of talking. Please understand; I stand firmly in the camp of freedom: religion, speech, choices.
Your right to talk is sacred to me, but don’t be surprised if I talk back. My friend talked and talked and talked, but there was no reaching of some beautiful wormhole of cosmic understanding. There was no ranting and no raving but there was also no miraculous discovery of common ground. Sad. But true. It’s life and living and I respect that.
Want to know when the conversation got moderate? When the friend of my friend, who is someone no one knows, started selling stuff and suddenly, the agenda changed: You have what I want, and I make what you need. Let’s make a deal. And boom! The world got a little more civil.
If the world wants civil, then sell more stuff. It’s amazing how thoughtful people become when they want your money or your circuit boards or your business. Trade tempers the temper. Historians understand the importance of goods and services that trade hands, open borders, and broaden horizons.
“Trade was also a boon for human interaction, bringing cross-cultural contact to a whole new level.” (Live Science, Heather Whipp)
America has always been a nation of shopkeepers. It kept us civil. It kept us polite. It keeps life personal. Small business keeps us united. Keep that in mind when folks talk, talk, talk about bigger and bigger centralized government.
I have heard that the rule of thumb for those on Facebook, doing business of one sort or another, is to not say anything on social media you wouldn’t say at a cocktail party before the drinking.
Of course, there are ALWAYS exceptions to the rule and people who feel free to trash talk regardless of what they’re selling in their lemonade stands: rock stars, comedians, talking heads, and other curmudgeons.
Let the free market decide.
Linda (Fifty Percent Off) Zern
June 13, 2017
E is for Everybody
I hate technology. As soon as I figure out Facebook, here comes Twitter, or Pitter, or Pat, or whatever. I spend a major part of my waking life trying to master the latest method of embarrassing myself in public—online. It’s exhausting.
For ten years, I’ve been posting, emailing, and flying our family flag, in written form, from the flagpole of public humiliation—many find my observations humorous, a few have been offended, and a couple of people have threatened legal action. Several individuals have wondered if my disclosures damage my children’s delicate psyches—not if I pay them a dollar every time their name is mentioned.
I recently joined an online writer’s website where you can post your work, read other writer’s stuff, and introduce oneself to a larger audience. I tried writing a brief introductory biography, but my life and history defied the E rating (E is for everybody) necessary to post a general site wide introduction. I got smacked down by the automated-techno word police.
Here’s my rejected online BIO:
Writing is in my blood for the following reasons: I am of the southern persuasion; moonshine and madness run through my family tree like freckles on a redhead; murder, betrayal, and abandonment were family traditions in some branches of the tree. Family rumors speculate that wild dogs raised several of the long dead ancestors and a couple of individuals were suspected of and arrested for the theft of poultry—no word on convictions.
It is my firm belief that if I don’t write I’ll become a chicken-stealing drunk. When I read anything by William Faulkner, I wonder when he had time to peek through the windows of my family history and write about the nimrods he found there, and my favorite author is Shirley Jackson because she wrote a book about her family called “Life Among the Savages.”
Here’s why my BIO was rejected:
An E-rated Intro is suitable for everyone of any age. There are absolutely no references to sex (other than gender), drugs (legal/illegal), alcohol, violence, cursing (of any kind), derogatory names or any combinations thereof. These titles are displayed for members who have their rating preferences set to 18+ and below.
Here’s my E-rated, revised BIO:
See Jane write. Jane loves to write and write and write. Write Jan write. See Jane write about Dick. See Jane write about butterflies. Fly free butterflies. Oh no! Run Dick. The butterflies have fangs. Run Dick run. Too late, the butterflies have ripped Dick’s throat out. Sad Dick. Sad Jane.
Oops! Still trying . . .
Linda (Name that Nimrod) Zern
To read more from L. L. Zern see
For ten years, I’ve been posting, emailing, and flying our family flag, in written form, from the flagpole of public humiliation—many find my observations humorous, a few have been offended, and a couple of people have threatened legal action. Several individuals have wondered if my disclosures damage my children’s delicate psyches—not if I pay them a dollar every time their name is mentioned.
I recently joined an online writer’s website where you can post your work, read other writer’s stuff, and introduce oneself to a larger audience. I tried writing a brief introductory biography, but my life and history defied the E rating (E is for everybody) necessary to post a general site wide introduction. I got smacked down by the automated-techno word police.
Here’s my rejected online BIO:
Writing is in my blood for the following reasons: I am of the southern persuasion; moonshine and madness run through my family tree like freckles on a redhead; murder, betrayal, and abandonment were family traditions in some branches of the tree. Family rumors speculate that wild dogs raised several of the long dead ancestors and a couple of individuals were suspected of and arrested for the theft of poultry—no word on convictions.
It is my firm belief that if I don’t write I’ll become a chicken-stealing drunk. When I read anything by William Faulkner, I wonder when he had time to peek through the windows of my family history and write about the nimrods he found there, and my favorite author is Shirley Jackson because she wrote a book about her family called “Life Among the Savages.”
Here’s why my BIO was rejected:
An E-rated Intro is suitable for everyone of any age. There are absolutely no references to sex (other than gender), drugs (legal/illegal), alcohol, violence, cursing (of any kind), derogatory names or any combinations thereof. These titles are displayed for members who have their rating preferences set to 18+ and below.
Here’s my E-rated, revised BIO:
See Jane write. Jane loves to write and write and write. Write Jan write. See Jane write about Dick. See Jane write about butterflies. Fly free butterflies. Oh no! Run Dick. The butterflies have fangs. Run Dick run. Too late, the butterflies have ripped Dick’s throat out. Sad Dick. Sad Jane.
Oops! Still trying . . .
Linda (Name that Nimrod) Zern
To read more from L. L. Zern see
June 5, 2017
A QUICKY - POSTINGS THAT ARE SHORT AND SWEET
SPACE COAST BOOK LOVERS BOOK SIGNING * JUNE 2017THE AUTHOR WITH HER PERSONAL ASSISTANT.
June 4, 2017
I Spy Naked
My favorite fairy tale of all time is The Emperor’s New Clothes. It’s continually timely. It’s satirically poignant. It’s completely dead on. The problem is that so many people are walking around naked these days, convinced that they’re fully clothed I get tired of yelling, “Hey, Dude, get your money back. You’re naked. And it’s not ‘good naked.’”
The fairy tale is about a couple of tailors trained in the fancy school of slick talkers. The tailors offer to make the emperor a suit of clothes like none other. They can’t. No worries. They convince the dope they have, in fact, made the next hot thing in fashion, sort of like an invisible man romper or a see-through leisure suit.
Peer pressure and personal agenda keep the adults silent as the jiggle bottomed NAKED emperor marches through the street. Sure. Sure. Wonderful. Great suit. Looks classy. Nice jiggle stuff. Excellent colored bits of cloth flapping in the breeze.
Adults are toads—in the story.
Only one kid has the bad manners, to tell the truth. Love that kid. Where is that kid? We could use her these days.
I’d put that kid in charge of everything.
“Hey! Lady! Was that tattoo of Tweety Bird supposed to look like a saggy vulture?” The kid would point and say on a regular basis.
In a bathroom, I eavesdropped on the following conversation.
“So you have a tattoo?” asked a sweet, young thing, washing her hands.
“Yeah, on my boob. It’s a Tweety Bird.” Tattoo girl continued to wash her hands.
“Cool. I want to get one.”
“I wouldn’t.” Plastic gears churned as they pulled paper towels free.
“Why?”
“Tweety looked great when I first got it, but then I got pregnant, and now it looks like sh$*!”
Both girls nodded their heads in companionable agreement.
Moral of the story? If you’re going to walk around dressed in cellophane clothes and saggy vultures, don’t be shocked when some bright young thing points at you and says, “Gross!”
Thank you, bright young thing. I’m with you.
Linda (Retina Burn) Zern
The fairy tale is about a couple of tailors trained in the fancy school of slick talkers. The tailors offer to make the emperor a suit of clothes like none other. They can’t. No worries. They convince the dope they have, in fact, made the next hot thing in fashion, sort of like an invisible man romper or a see-through leisure suit.
Peer pressure and personal agenda keep the adults silent as the jiggle bottomed NAKED emperor marches through the street. Sure. Sure. Wonderful. Great suit. Looks classy. Nice jiggle stuff. Excellent colored bits of cloth flapping in the breeze.
Adults are toads—in the story.
Only one kid has the bad manners, to tell the truth. Love that kid. Where is that kid? We could use her these days.
I’d put that kid in charge of everything.
“Hey! Lady! Was that tattoo of Tweety Bird supposed to look like a saggy vulture?” The kid would point and say on a regular basis.
In a bathroom, I eavesdropped on the following conversation.
“So you have a tattoo?” asked a sweet, young thing, washing her hands.
“Yeah, on my boob. It’s a Tweety Bird.” Tattoo girl continued to wash her hands.
“Cool. I want to get one.”
“I wouldn’t.” Plastic gears churned as they pulled paper towels free.
“Why?”
“Tweety looked great when I first got it, but then I got pregnant, and now it looks like sh$*!”
Both girls nodded their heads in companionable agreement.
Moral of the story? If you’re going to walk around dressed in cellophane clothes and saggy vultures, don’t be shocked when some bright young thing points at you and says, “Gross!”
Thank you, bright young thing. I’m with you.
Linda (Retina Burn) Zern
I Spy Naked
My favorite fairy tale of all time is The Emperor’s New Clothes. It’s continually timely. It’s satirically poignant. It’s completely dead on. The problem is that so many people are walking around naked these days, convinced that they’re fully clothed I get tired of yelling, “Hey, Dude, get your money back. You’re naked. And it’s not ‘good naked.’” The fairy tale is about a couple of tailors trained in the fancy school of slick talkers. The tailors offer to make the emperor a suit of clothes like none other. They can’t. No worries. They convince the dope they have, in fact, made the next hot thing in fashion, sort of like an invisible man romper or a see-through leisure suit.
Peer pressure and personal agenda keep the adults silent as the jiggle bottomed NAKED emperor marches through the street. Sure. Sure. Wonderful. Great suit. Looks classy. Nice jiggle stuff. Excellent colored bits of cloth flapping in the breeze.
Adults are toads—in the story.
Only one kid has the bad manners, to tell the truth. Love that kid. Where is that kid? We could use her these days.
I’d put that kid in charge of everything.
“Hey! Lady! Was that tattoo of Tweety Bird supposed to look like a saggy vulture?” The kid would point and say on a regular basis.
In a bathroom, I eavesdropped on the following conversation.
“So you have a tattoo?” asked a sweet, young thing, washing her hands.
“Yeah, on my boob. It’s a Tweety Bird.” Tattoo girl continued to wash her hands.
“Cool. I want to get one.”
“I wouldn’t.” Plastic gears churned as they pulled paper towels free.
“Why?”
“Tweety looked great when I first got it, but then I got pregnant, and now it looks like sh$*!”
Both girls nodded their heads in companionable agreement.
Moral of the story? If you’re going to walk around dressed in cellophane clothes and saggy vultures, don’t be shocked when some bright young thing points at you and says, “Gross!”
Thank you, bright young thing. I’m with you.
Linda (Retina Burn) Zern
