Monday, December 28, 2009

Mentor Monday: Keeping Track



At a recent meeting one we talked about (indeed, I think we committed to) "getting something in the mail" - a group New Year's Resolution, if you will, to submit or resubmit a manuscript (some of us have done nothing but Notable Women for a year now . . .). One member mentioned a manuscript she'd like to send out again, and that she couldn't remember where it had been in the past. This got me thinking about the tracking system I used when I was writing a lot of magazine articles on spec. . . .and that sent me in search of an article I wrote about said system. I offer it here, with some revision, for any writer who is thinking "this is the year I'm going to organize my marketing efforts!"

Your system can be a computerized spreadsheet, a card file, or a set of shoeboxes under the bed. One shoebox, section or worksheet is for ideas (this is in addition to and separate from the file folders, shoeboxes or ’74 Buick into which you toss clippings, pictures and notes that you might use someday). Here you capture those inspired thoughts that present themselves at the most inopportune moments. You hear a news story about a dog that rescues a child from an oncoming train while you’re driving the preschool carpool. “What a great story,” you think. “I could do a picture book about that.” But you’re working on a magazine article about using orange peels to clean carpets, and by the time it’s finished you’ve forgotten all about the hero dog idea. With the ideas file, you put some keyword about your idea at the top of the card (or in the first field of your record). Jot any useful information underneath (the date you heard the story would be a good clue). File it.

Some day when you can’t come up with anything to write about, pull out that ideas file and page through it. If one idea (or a combination) strikes a chord, start writing. And create a new card, for the manuscript section of your cardbox (or sheet in your spreadsheet file, or whatever). Include your working title, tracking number, or other identifier. Note the date you begin working on the story. When you finish the first draft, note the length. You may want to keep track of major revisions here as well (do you save revisions with distinctive names, so you can go back to them?) When you submit the manuscript, create a card or record for it in a section called "submissions."

Your submissions records will contain the name of the piece and its final word length. When you send it out, note here the market, editor’s name, and the date. If the piece is returned, note that date and any comments. If you revise it, make a note, and when you send it out again, record the new information. When it sells, note that, and add a line when it’s published. Reprints should get recorded here as well (may you need additional cards!)

The final section of your tracking system is the "markets" section. Set up a record for each market you send manuscripts to, so it cross-matches with the submissions records. The markets files contain detailed information on each publisher: what kinds of material they publish, what rights they buy as well as addresses. Note editors’ names and titles (and update them when they change jobs). If you meet an editor at a conference or a friend recommends one, make a note of that so you can mention it in a cover letter. Finally, as you submit to various markets, note the manuscript title (or tracking number) and the date here just as you note the market and date on the manuscript card. This will keep you from inadvertently submitting something new to an editor who is already sitting on one of your pieces. Purchases and publication information can be recorded here as well if you like, creating a history of sales to a particular market.

If you hear of a new publisher from a friend or discover a promising magazine in a waiting room, create a record for it and include as much information as you have about that market. Make up records for publishers you flag in your writer’s guides or other research. When you’re trying to decide where to send a returned manuscript or casting about for new fields to explore, paging through your markets file will remind you of this discovery.

One final bonus to this system: if you’re ever audited by the IRS, you’ll have documentation of your working writer status. Happy tracking!

Friday, December 25, 2009

A Very Merry Poetry Friday!


Please check out the post below--it is a combined Women of Wednesday and Poetry Friday posting. There you'll find a delightful poem by Katharine Lee Bates about Mrs. Claus called, "Goody Santa Claus on a Sleigh Ride." Enjoy!

Today's holiday Poetry Friday Round-Up is taking place at Book Aunt--be sure to visit!

Peace to all!

--Diane

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Women of Wednesday--The Woman of the Hour

This is, of course, Mrs. Claus. The poor woman has been keeping things going all year--getting Santa fed each morning, noon, and night (plus, finding the time to do the baking for all those cookie breaks), doing the laundry, constantly sweeping away bits of workshop sawdust, and still finding time to make the occasional public appearance. Tomorrow for a brief period of time she'll get a break while Santa flies off on his yearly adventure. Then it's back to the old schedule once again. The woman is a saint.

The author of "America the Beautiful," Katherine Lee Bates, wrote a long poem about Mrs. Claus in 1889. In it, Bates, writing in the persona of Mrs. C., outlines all the tasks that the poor woman (called Goody, short for "goodwife," Claus) does around the North Pole. Goody C. has Santa's number--does she ever! She teases him about his weight, calls him "your Saintship," and complains "wouldn't it be pleasant to surprise me with a present?" In fact, before the poem's done, she manages to sweet talk Santa into taking her along for a ride on Christmas eve. Not only that, she surpasses her "gentle sailor" in generosity by repairing a holey stocking and offering a poor poet "a fallen star to write by, and a music-box of rain." The woman IS A SAINT!
Goody Santa Claus on a Sleigh Ride

Santa, must I tease in vain, Dear? Let me go and hold the reindeer,
While you clamber down the chimneys. Don't look savage as a Turk!
Why should you have all the glory of the joyous Christmas story,
And poor little Goody Santa Claus have nothing but the work?

It would be so very cozy, you and I, all round and rosy,
Looking like two loving snowballs in our fuzzy Arctic furs,
Tucked in warm and snug together, whisking through the winter weather
Where the tinkle of the sleigh-bells is the only sound that stirs.

You just sit here and grow chubby off the goodies in my cubby
From December to December, till your white beard sweeps your knees;
For you must allow, my Goodman, that you're but a lazy woodman
And rely on me to foster all our fruitful Christmas trees.

While your Saintship waxes holy, year by year, and roly-poly,
Blessed by all the lads and lassies in the limits of the land,
While your toes at home you're toasting, then poor Goody must go posting
Out to plant and prune and garner, where our fir-tree forests stand.

Oh! but when the toil is sorest how I love our fir-tree forest,
Heart of light and heart of beauty in the Northland cold and dim,
All with gifts and candles laden to delight a boy or maiden,
And its dark-green branches ever murmuring the Christmas hymn!

Yet ask young Jack Frost, our neighbor, who but Goody has the labor,
Feeding roots with milk and honey that the bonbons may be sweet!
Who but Goody knows the reason why the playthings bloom in season
And the ripened toys and trinkets rattle gaily to her feet!

From the time the dollies budded, wiry-boned and saw-dust blooded,
With their waxen eyelids winking when the wind the tree-tops plied,
Have I rested for a minute, until now your pack has in it
All the bright, abundant harvest of the merry Christmastide?

Santa, wouldn't it be pleasant to surprise me with a present?
And this ride behind the reindeer is the boon your Goody begs;
Think how hard my extra work is, tending the Thanksgiving turkeys
And our flocks of rainbow chickens — those that lay the Easter eggs.

Home to womankind is suited? Nonsense, Goodman! Let our fruited
Orchards answer for the value of a woman out-of-doors.
Why then bid me chase the thunder, while the roof you're safely under,
All to fashion fire-crackers with the lighting in their cores?

See! I've fetched my snow-flake bonnet, with the sunrise ribbons on it;
I've not worn it since we fled from Fairyland our wedding day;
How we sped through iceberg porches with the Northern Lights for torches!
You were young and slender, Santa, and we had this very sleigh.

Jump in quick then? That's my bonny. Hey down derry! Nonny nonny!
While I tie your fur cap closer, I will kiss your ruddy chin.
I'm so pleased I fall to singing, just as sleigh-bells take to ringing!
Are the cloud-spun lap-robes ready? Tirra-lirra! Tuck me in.

Off across the starlight Norland, where no plant adorns the moorland
Save the ruby-berried holly and the frolic mistletoe!
Oh, but this is Christmas revel! Off across the frosted level
Where the reindeers' hoofs strike sparkles from the crispy, crackling snow!

There's the Man i' the Moon before us, bound to lead the Christmas chorus
With the music of the sky-waves rippling round his silver shell —
Glimmering boat that leans and tarries with the weight of dreams she carries
To the cots of happy children. Gentle sailor, steer her well!

Now we pass through dusky portals to the drowsy land of mortals;
Snow-enfolded, silent cities stretch about us dim and far.
Oh! how sound the world is sleeping, midnight watch no shepherd keeping,
Though an angel-face shines gladly down from every golden star.

Here's a roof. I'll hold the reindeer. I suppose this weather-vane, Dear,
Some one set here just on purpose for our teams to fasten to.
There's its gilded cock, — the gaby! — wants to crow and tell the baby
We are come. Be careful, Santa! Don't get smothered in the flue.

Back so soon? No chimney-swallow dives but where his mate can follow.
Bend your cold ear, Sweetheart Santa, down to catch my whisper faint:
Would it be so very shocking if your Goody filled a stocking
Just for once? Oh, dear! Forgive me. Frowns do not become a Saint.

I will peep in at the skylights, where the moon sheds tender twilights
Equally down silken chambers and down attics bare and bleak.
Let me show with hailstone candies these two dreaming boys — the dandies
In their frilled and fluted nighties, rosy cheek to rosy cheek!

What! No gift for this poor garret? Take a sunset sash and wear it
O'er the rags, my pale-faced lassie, till thy father smiles again.
He's a poet, but — oh, cruel! he has neither light nor fuel.
Here's a fallen star to write by, and a music-box of rain.

So our sprightly reindeer clamber, with their fairy sleigh of amber,
On from roof to roof , the woven shades of night about us drawn.
On from roof to roof we twinkle, all the silver bells a-tinkle,
Till blooms in yonder blessèd East the rose of Christmas dawn.

Now the pack is fairly rifled, and poor Santa's well-nigh stifled;
Yet you would not let your Goody fill a single baby-sock;
Yes, I know the task takes brain, Dear. I can only hold the reindeer,
And so see me climb down chimney — it would give your nerves a shock.

Wait! There's yet a tiny fellow, smiling lips and curls so yellow
You would think a truant sunbeam played in them all night. He spins
Giant tops, a flies kites higher than the gold cathedral spire
In his creams — the orphan bairnie, trustful little Tatterkins.

Santa, don't pass by the urchin! Shake the pack, and deeply search in
All your pockets. There is always one toy more. I told you so.
Up again? Why, what's the trouble? On your eyelash winks the bubble
Mortals call a tear, I fancy. Holes in stocking, heel and toe?

Goodman, though your speech is crusty now and then there's nothing rusty
In your heart. A child's least sorrow makes your wet eyes glisten, too;
But I'll mend that sock so nearly it shall hold your gifts completely.
Take the reins and let me show you what a woman's wit can do.

Puff! I'm up again, my Deary, flushed a bit and somewhat weary,
With my wedding snow-flake bonnet worse for many a sooty knock;
But be glad you let me wheedle, since, an icicle for needle,
Threaded with the last pale moonbeam, I have darned the laddie's sock.

Then I tucked a paint-box in it ('twas no easy task to win it
From the Artist of the Autumn Leaves) and frost-fruits white and sweet,
With the toys your pocket misses — oh! and kisses upon kisses
To cherish safe from evil paths the motherless small feet.

Chirrup! chirrup! There's a patter of soft footsteps and a clatter
Of child voices. Speed it, reindeer, up the sparkling Arctic Hill!
Merry Christmas, little people! Joy-bells ring in every steeple,
And Goody's gladdest of the glad. I've had my own sweet will.


Happy holidays to everyone!
--Diane

Image from riptheskull

Monday, December 21, 2009

Mentor Monday--The National Archives


The U.S. government preserves our national heritage through the National Archives and Records Adminstration. People consult the NARA to do genealogical research or to check military records, but, the NARA is more than records of births, deaths, and years of service. It has a vast collection of photographs, maps, documents, etc., many of which are digitized and accessible from the ARC webpage. A great feature on the site is Today's Document, which displays an original historically significant document. Also included with the document may be a transcript, background information, suggestions for teachers, and research links.

The National Archives is headquartered in Washington, D.C., and there are thirteen regional Archives. I knew there was one about an hour's drive from me in Massachusetts, but I had never visited it until recently. I was impressed by my first visit, and I'm sure you will be, too. There is so much STUFF! Not only that, the people at the Northeast Region at Boston conduct workshops for educators.

I attended a workshop earlier this month on World War II. It was multi-faceted with an overview of World War II, a discussion of WW II books for elementary school students, and a talk by a writer of a children's book about WW II and how she used the National Archives in her research. We could have spent twice the two hours that had been allotted for the workshop. The best part? It was free! My tax dollars at work.

Northeast Region at Boston also schedules a variety genealogical workshops, including ones for kids!

We live in a great country! Take advantage of the opportunities afforded you by our government to learn.

--Diane

Photo NARA

Friday, December 18, 2009

Poetry Friday - Robert W. Service


It’s been bitterly cold the last two days, here in New Hampshire. And whenever it gets that cold, I find myself pulling out Robert W. Service and The Cremation of Sam McGee. Just reading it warms me up!

First, a little bit about Mr. Service, who spent a great deal of his life up in the Yukon during the Alaskan Gold Rush.

From his obituary in the, Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, September 16, 1958.

He was not a poet's poet. Fancy-Dan dilettantes will dispute the description "great." He was a people's poet. To the people he was great. They understood him, and knew that any verse carrying the by-line of Robert W. Service would be a lilting thing, clear, clean and power-packed, beating out a story with a dramatic intensity that made the nerves tingle. And he was no poor, garret-type poet, either. His stuff made money hand over fist. One piece alone,
The Shooting of Dan McGrew, rolled up half a million dollars for him. He lived it up well and also gave a great deal to help others.

Imagine that. A poet making half a million dollars. On one poem!

Personally, I like Sam McGee better than Dan McGrew.


















The Cremation of Sam McGee

by Robert W. Service

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! Through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-to-re-um."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Photo: Beverly Bennett Dobbs

Today's Poetry Roundup is being held at Susan Writes