West Coast Review

I have a particular fondness for paintings of women reading. I suppose this is because I spend so much time reading – and I like images that have a woman, alone, comfortable, engrossed in a book, ignoring whatever is going on around her (including the artist painting her). I love this 1933 painting by Henry Lamb (left), The Artist’s Wife, for this reason. I’ve just discovered the Tate’s Album facility, in which you can create your own digital exhibition drawing on their collection, so I decided to do one of pictures of women reading. There are quite a few, it turns out (although, of course, many from other collections, too). You can look at my album here. The range of images is fascinating – because, after all, women reading is a historically complex, socially-inflected topic. For centuries women were only encouraged to read the Bible, and, presumably, recipe books –…

“Animals are reliable, many full of love, true in their affections, predictable in their actions, grateful and loyal. Difficult standards for people to live up to” ― Alfred A. Montapert

Have you heard my latest single?

When it comes to werewolves, there’s usually a lot of rending and tearing.  Maybe a little shedding.  Sometimes fleas.  Befitting the capital of soul, Motown werewolves are historically all about the love, oft unrequited, but isn’t that what all the best R&B anthems are about?  From the founding of Detroit in 1701 by French explorer Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac to today, the werewolves of Detroit have explored the softer side of lycanthropy, which nonetheless involves a lot of biting and scratching.  They are wolves, after all.

Jacques Morand was a French Canadian woodsman, the founding member of the prolific Morand family (and a relation-by-marriage to Cadillac himself), born in the Batiscan region of…

My brother Val and I had gone to the beach house for Thanksgiving. This was 1944, before my marriage or children, when it seemed it was always just my brother and me, plus assorted friends and lovers.

Our brother Andy (Andrew) was somewhere in Europe in a USO show. Our eldest brother Max and my future husband Teddy were in London doing something secret for the American Government. Our parents were in Washington DC.

Nobody knew where our brother Aaron or his wife Verity were. They were the traditional ones who always stayed on the safe predictable road to anywhere – now we had no idea where they were. The last time anyone heard they were in France, but they could have been anywhere. They could have been dead or worse captured but we stopped guessing.

Valentine and I had our fill the night before in San Francisco. The clubs were…

Johnny and his little sister Stacy went to bed earlier than usual that night, but they didn’t mind. It was Christmas Eve after all, and what child isn’t willing to sacrifice a bit of play time when he or she knows that turning in early might just hasten the arrival of Saint Nick? The last thing they did before retiring to their rooms was to watch their mom place a cup of hot tea and a small plate of chocolate cookies on the counter for Santa. “The jolly old elf travels all over the world through the cold and snow every Christmas Eve to deliver toys to good little girls and boys,” she would often tell them. Both children took her at her word because…well, didn’t they receive the toys they asked for the last couple of years?

During the year Mom would often warn her children that Santa only…

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted as always by Rochelle. This week’s picture was contributed by FF stalwart Sandra Crook.

I’ve had a very odd and worrying week, so here’s a very odd story to go with it, best I can summon up right now.

Meet my heroine, doddery old Vera, as she sits on the beach enjoying a nice cup of tea. Feel free to apply a Northern English accent to her words :-).

To read the other stories, click on the blue froggy.

Copyright Sandra Crook

“Look at them cliffs, dearie. Lovely view!”

“I CARE NOTHING OF VIEWS! I AM COME…”

“Nice cup o’ tea?”

“… TO, um, TEAR YOUR REALM TO SHREDS…”

“And a tasty biscuit?”

“… um, AND DRAG YOU TO THE DEPTHS OF, um, yes, thank you… WAIT! I CARE NOTHING OF BISCUITS…”

“What did you say your name was, dearie?”

“Um, YOU WILL BURN…

Bone to Pick

Joe opened stepped into his house and took a big sniff. “Smells good.”

Tom, his roommate, turned from the stove and smiled. “Thanks. It’s my dad’s recipe for trout.”

Joe’s eyebrow lifted. “I thought you had a date tonight?”

Tom nodded. “Yep.” He checked the clock “In about an hour.”

Joe glanced at the frying pan and noticed the halves of a single fish. “Guess I’m eating out.”

“Yeah, sorry, man. Jackie doesn’t really like you.”

Tom shrugged. “No worries. Although, you may be on her shit list after tonight.”

“Why?”

“You’re supposed to clean the fish before cooking it.”

Today, I have a special treat for you guys. Author, speaker, editor and long-time W.A.N.A. International Instructor Marcy Kennedy is here to talk about internal dialogue—when to use it, why we use it and how not to get all cray-cray with it.

Trust us. As editors, Marcy and I see it all. Often newer writers swing to one extreme or another. Either they stay SO much in a character’s head that we (the reader) are trapped in The Land of Nothing Happening or we’re never given any insight into the character’s inner thought life, leaving said character as interesting as a rice cake.

Like all things in fiction, balance is key. Marcy is here to work her magic and teach y’all how to use internal dialogue for max effect.

Take it away, Marcy!

Understanding why something is important to our writing lays the foundation for bettering our writing because it…