Would You Read On? hosted by Diana L. Flegal

Welcome to Hartline's weekly column,  Would You Read On?
We appreciate you stopping by and welcome your comments below.

 This submission is a middle grade historical novel set in a fictional New England town in the 1870s

Chapter One

What would Aunt Martha say if she knew? It occurred to Amelia that her aunt and caregiver would more than disapprove of her frolicking along the edge of Ridgemont Lake with Ralph when she was supposed to be studying her lessons.

But the day had called to her. It was one of those glorious early autumn days where the elements couldn’t decide if they wanted to let go of summer. The warm breezes danced through her hair and tickled her cheeks. The sun peeked out playfully from between the trees whose leaves were in the midst of their annual change to red, orange, and yellow. 

With bare feet Amelia jumped to the next rock, the moss squishy and slippery underneath her toes. Her slender arms stretched out to help maintain her balance, she exhaled deeply. Oh, if only every day could be like this.

The screech of a hawk drew her gaze up to the sky and threw her off balance. Two strong arms encircled her waist and pulled her unsteadily onto the grass.

“You best be careful Miss Amelia.” Ralph scolded her with a waving finger. “You go home drippin’ wet and Miss Ridgemont is sure to know you ain’t been studyin’.”

Amelia’s hand flew up to her forehead and she pretended to swoon. “How dreadful it would be to have a bit of fun.”

Ralph’s lips curled as he gave a hearty laugh. He turned to pull his fishing pole out of the water. He had tossed it aside when he went to save Amelia from a possible nosedive into the lake.

Last weeks contributing author was Sally Apokedak.
You can learn more about Sally and her passion for YA novels and writing at her blog.


Happy 4th of July to you and yours

CONTESTS AROUND EVERY CORNER by Linda S. Glaz

Okay, here goes: time for writing marathons, time for judging, time for crazy evaluations, and time for tears. Buckets and buckets of tears. And I’m not even submitting. Believe it or not, that’s the judge’s perspective.

Reading the work of someone else who is brave enough to put the love of their life into a competition. Author—a person who basically strips him or herself bare in order to win or simply get feedback for their work.

How does the judge suffer? That’s easy. No one wants to say no. No one, other than a sadist, looks at an author’s work with anything but compassion and a desire to help that writer improve their work—help them toward the road of publication. Are there judges who race through an entry and do a poor job? Yes, unfortunately all judges are as human as the writers. Fact of life. But do most of them? No. They take the responsibility humbly and with an open heart to do their best.

So, the buckets of tears come from the judges as well as the entrants. Having to turn down a fabulous storyline because it doesn’t fit the genre, grammar’s poor, punctuation needs work, or any other number of things preventing it from going forward.

What can authors do to improve their chances?
One: be sure you’re submitting in the correct genre.
Two: read your entry out loud to yourself to catch all the typos you missed on the computer
Three: run it past a crit partner, anyone but MOM
Four: Does the story hook the reader on the first two pages? Don’t wait for page 15 or 20, depending on the contest, to draw your reader in. If you have the judge by page 1, he or she will look much more favorably on the rest of the entry
Five: do a great synopsis. Let the judge know where you’re going.

This won’t guarantee you a slot at the Oscars—oops, I meant the ACFW or Other banquet, but it might give you a step up when it comes to what a judge is looking for. Good luck, be blessed, and don’t be shy. Even if you don’t make it this year, there’s always next year.

I RANTED AND RAVED by Linda S. Glaz

So, on my own blog this weekend I ranted and raved about not going postal, but going COCKADOODIE a la Kathy Bates in Misery over all the mistakes found in novels. I whined and moaned, basically because I’d spent good money on a good author for a good read, but was sorely disappointed. Okay, so I pitched a junior high style fit!

Now, however, I’d like to play the Devil’s Advocate (it’s just an expression, folks) and take the other side.

A writer writes, reads, rewrites, rereads, and submits. Not all that quickly, however. And somewhere around the tenth read, it becomes impossible to remember if the guy died in the bedroom, hung in the closet or in the kitchen, sprawled over the counter. Maybe he fell over dead as he stepped from the shower. Was it the right side of the shower that was switched to the left, or nearest the commode to suddenly nearest the bathroom scales? Yup! That would be where they found me. Stood on the scales, read the numbers, and keeled over dead as the bathroom door knob!

How about those wonderful critique partners? Thank you, Lord, for wonderful crit partners without whom writing would be impossible. They catch so much! However, I can’t tell you how many times we find mistakes in novels just before submission; we scratch our collective heads and say “How did we miss that after four, five, six, or ten dozen reads?” No one can find all the problems.

Then the publisher has the opportunity to miss things—oops, I meant, to find things. A first reader, an editor or two, a final reader, and lastly the final edits by way of the editor and author. More mistakes? Really? Let’s face it, Jane Smith’s book is not the only one that editor is working on. Are publishers today overwhelmed with the submissions, particularly with all the cutbacks in staff? You bet they are. And I have no doubt overworked as well at this point.

And lastly, the reader. By now, it’s all too late to worry about. If it’s in there, it’s in there. As the author, you can only hope the story itself is strong enough that the mistakes here and there don’t affect the reader’s opinion all that much. Besides, most readers aren’t quite as picky as the rest of us writers, BUT! And this is a biggie, if you have something that was missed that makes the outcome of your story impossible to have happened, you’re going to hear from some of us. I recently read a complaint by a secular reader that Christian reviews aren’t solid. “They give 5 stars to everything” from here to kingdom come. And I have read some of those reviews. When an outcome was blatantly physically impossible to have happened. And yet, all 5-star reviews.

As Christians it IS important to be kind, supportive, and caring, but you also have to be honest to potential buyers. If you can’t honestly give a book a 5 and you don’t want to hurt the author, don’t give any review at all. But don’t automatically stamp a book a 5 when there are enough mistakes in it that they jump off the page in bold face. DO, however, remember the sweat and tears that went into the writing. The story might be so good, you can kindly point out that in spite of this or that error, the storyline was truly good and worth the read. But be honest.

Okay, between the two blogs, I’ve tried to see mistakes in novels from two different points of view. In the end, it’s you, the reader who decides which books will be long remembered in your hearts, and which will simply leave you scratching your head going, “HUH?”
Happy reading…

Potentially Tense Canaries by Andy Scheer

Perhaps their experience with spell-check had made the canaries tense. They flew at me off the page, daring me to discover their sentence’s original meaning, before spell-check and its minion, “suggest word replacement,” had their way.

The sentence taunted me; what could it mean? Nothing in the manuscript I’d been editing hinted at the problems posed by Question 5:

5. What potential tensions canaries from a transition in mower, authority, responsibility and promise as we see with Abraham and Isaac?

I poured over the sentence, my curiosity peaked.* What had spell-check wrought?

I started with the easier word, “mower.” My mind recalled, then rejected the old joke:

Q: What do you get if you run over a canary with a mower?

A: Shredded tweet.

The context suggested the author had meant “power.” But canaries? What potentially could make them tense? I noted the problem in my “questions for author” document and moved on, hoping my subconscious would solve a problem that could only be computer induced.

Spell-check is wonderful. I use it—but I don’t trust it, especially if I’ve not given the document a line-by-line, word-by-word reading. Otherwise you end up with a paragraph like this, from a nonfiction proposal that once came my way:

I remember at the age of twenty-one thinking surly marriage was eminent and my prince charming was right around the corner. With each passing birthday I would try to quite the ache in my heart with the thought “maybe this year.”

Perhaps if she didn’t want a marriage that stood out so much, she wouldn’t be feeling surly. But I decided to quite my objections. Maybe I was the one being surly, condemning a writer for three correctly spelled typos in one short paragraph, not counting the lack of capitalization.

Then I turned the page and saw this:

I was like many eighteen year old girls when I graduated from high school. When I walked down the isle with my diploma in hand, my sights were set on the next exciting chapter of my life, college.

Aisle not be reading further, I thought. It’s no good atoll.

A half-hour later, my subconscious did its job and I returned to the canaries. With my editing knife, I cut them in two, then switched the order of two letters. Canaries = can arise.

5. What potential tensions can arise from a transition in power, authority, responsibility, and promise, as we see with Abraham and Isaac?

The sentence made sense, even if spell-check didn’t care.

* Yes, they’re intentional.

First Pages Would You Read On? hosted by Diana Flegal

The New Year has begun and many authors spent their holiday 'off time' writing, editing and rewriting their WIP. (Work in progress)

If you would like to have your First Page reviewed here some Weds, please submit it to diana@hartlineliterary.com. Place First Page Submission in the subject line of your email.

Please keep in mind we do not want material that would conflict with the Christian Worldview but will entertain, wholesome general market first pages as well as material for the Inspirational markets. We are open to nonfiction submissions as well.

Would you read on?:

At a quarter past six on the twelfth of August in Alexandria, Virginia, Kate Winston unlocked her brownstone condo in Old Town and disarmed the security alarm. With her hip she bumped open the door and stepped into the foyer. The sweltering humidity and endless hours on her feet at the mall had zapped the bounce from Kate’s auburn bangs, leaving her drained, cranky, and (now) careless. She tossed her keys into the porcelain bowl nestled on the antique credenza and began sorting mail. Had she lifted her eyes she would have seen the man’s reflection in the hallway mirror. But she did not. Instead, Kate ripped open an envelope and scanned her credit card statement.

A second later the man pounced, driving Kate into the credenza and sending the antique crockery crashing onto the Persian rug: the one she’d purchased for ten rubles at an outdoor bizarre in Islamabad. Clamping a sweaty forearm across her throat he pressed himself against Kate and growled, “Relax, sister. This’ll be fun.” But there was nothing fun about the way his hand roamed over her hip, across her skirt and down the outside of her thigh. Wiggling her right leg free, Kate lifted her foot and brought it down hard, grinding the heel of her shoe into the top of his barefoot. The assailant screamed, relaxing his grip. Not for long, but enough that Kate was able to reach inside her purse.

In a single fluid motion she whirled and fired.

The pair of silver hooks exploded from the stun gun, embedding themselves into the man’s black tee shirt and sending a rush of voltage surging through the wires. The man’s wiry body stiffened and for a few seconds he bounced on his heels, his hands twitching. Then Kate released the trigger and the attacker collapsed into a heap at her feet.

Little Distractions by Linda S. Glaz

How on earth did I get involved in so many “other” activities than merely my writing? Words, typos, unwanted punctuation!!!

Writers fill their work with a lot of extraneous words for starters and, unfortunately, a great deal of typos. How do they make it to the publisher and past without correction?

A couple years ago when I did online reviewing, I downloaded a book that seemed to hold a lot of promise. Story was great, but layout? Not so great. The novel, while not only being filled with 60+ typos, was also full of just, that, never, always, even, and enough !!!!!! to no doubt set a record.

When I wrote the pubber and asked if they needed proofreaders, I was told they didn’t at the time-hmmmm-nonetheless, I was put on a list in case they needed anyone else. They eventually did and I became a first reader for them. Later, a final reader. Now, I realize I’m a bit anal about such things, but come on, 60+ typos in one manuscript?

What stands out to you when you read a book? Something that really scrapes your nerves faster than a cheese grater does fingers. Is it men who growl, snarl? Women who whimper and sigh? Once or twice, okay, but when that’s all they’re doing, when do they have time to live out their stories?

First Pages Would You Read On? hosted by Diana Flegal

As we approach Christmas, I pray your chores are done and you are freed up to enjoy all of the wonderful things offered this joyous season. Please leave your comments and let us know if you would read on.

**********************************************

"What kind of person voluntarily dives into thirty-three degree water in the middle of winter?" Aleni plunged the syringe into the warm IV line and rolled her eyes. "A hot one." Christie smiled at the blue-lipped patient sprawled across the bed as she checked his vitals once again. “Guess he should have been even hotter.” She giggled. The pathetic stab at humor brought another eye roll from Aleni, who didn’t have time to play nice when people intentionally put themselves in jeopardy.

“Yeah, well this hottie almost died. Not exactly my idea of the smartest holiday adventure. My time and yours is better spent taking care of real patients: heart attacks, kidney stones, gunshots, and this guy adds to our schedule because he walked into danger on purpose. So here I am, pulling another double and the hospital insists I personally hold his hand. If he wanted attention, he should have signed on for the holiday production of I'm an Idiot at Christmastime." 

 "S-sorry if I...inconve-n,,,"

 Aleni sighed and shook her head. Not her most professional moment, or personal one, for that matter. Benzodiazepine usually kicked in quicker. An apology was in order. “Don’t try and talk. I’m rambling here. Been a long day.”

Last week’s entry was offered by author Cliff Keller. Cliff and his wife Marcia live in Jerusalem. He appreciates all of your comments and found them very helpful. Visit Cliff at his blog, Standing at the Gate, where he writes about life in Jerusalem.

COLOR ME RED AND GREEN by Linda S. Glaz

I’m a sucker for Christmas stories. Just saw Christmas Carol at Meadowbrook—again! Never tire of it. Even fruitcake enchants me if it’s my grandmother’s famous fruit bread which is filled with nuts, green and red maraschino cherries, and very little else. So sweet, it melts in your mouth.

Tonight, once we returned home, I put on an old favorite dvd: Marie Osmond and James Wood in The Gift of Love, an adaptation of The Gift of the Magi. Now, this is without a doubt the cheesiest acting you’ll ever see, but if you love real romance, O. Henry knew how to write it. Next will be Hallmark’s, The Christmas Card about a soldier from Afghanistan and a woman whose supposed love is anything but. Before the night’s over, I’ll pull out my very worn copy of Glendon Swartout’s A Christmas Gift, or as originally known, The Melodeon. The story of a young boy being raised by grandparents during the depression, and the story takes place just about an hour from my home here in Michigan. It’s a short, sweet, sappy getcha between the eyes Christmas tale of the true meaning of Christmas. And at last, I’ll get some sleep, but I’m sure there will be a few sugarplums dancing through my dreams.

In a couple days I’ll be making caramel corn for my friends at work, finishing the Christmas cleaning, and FINALLY getting up the Christmas decorations. This year has been a bit of a challenge to get to the normal activities, but I’m not about to let life get in the way of Christmas. It has always been such an important day, this wondrous day of Christ and family.

Well, you’ll have to excuse me, that soldier is about to appear in town, and the girl’s gonna have to make a choice for love or security. Hmmm, what do you suppose she’ll choose?

CARAMEL CORN
5c popped corn
½ c corn syrup
1c butter, yes, a whole cup, this is not for amateurs
1 T vanilla, I love vanilla!
2 c packed brown sugar
dash salt
1/2t baking soda
2 c peanuts

Preheat oven/250 degrees. Place popped corn and nuts into large bowl
Over medium heat, melt butter and brown sugar. Add corn syrup and salt. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Allow to boil 4 mins without stirring. Remove from heat and stir in soda and vanilla. Pour over popcorn and nuts in a thin stream, stirring to coat.
Bake in large pans, stirring every 15 minutes, for 1 hour. Remove from oven and place on wax paper that has been liberally sprayed with Pam. Allow to cool and break into chunks.
HAPPY EATING…

SCROOGE by Linda S. Glaz

Just saw a live performance of A Christmas Carol at Meadowbrook Theatre. Man, but they do a wonderful job! I have a bit of a bias since my daughter and son-in-law are in it. Still, it’s my all-time favorite Christmas show. Like Les Mis, another fave, it is a story of true redemption, and I’m a sucker for a good redemption story. There’s just something about when evil rears up, brings harm, rankles with hatred, or simply causes grief by omission, that makes me want to have hope in that individual(s).

I had a friend, overflowing with love, but was so surprised to learn that she didn’t think murderers or rapists or anyone with a dark past had any chance of salvation. Nor did she think they deserved it. I was shocked. I asked her if she understood the Grace of God. “Of course. And we need to work hard to try and deserve it.”

OUCH! His Grace just became so much less. She got really angry when I said we didn’t know just WHO we might meet in heaven. I’m awfully glad she wasn’t the one to make a decision about Paul entering the Pearlie Gates, but I do understand her disgust at the evil that exists in our world. BUT, shouldn’t a killer, or someone even worse, finding Christ be an amazing miracle to see? Isn’t that what the real Grace of God is all about?

Well, I’d better hop down and make room for the preachers, I’m not too good at his, but let me just end with this:
Scrooge brings such joy to my heart. I hope you all love the story as well and that you find joy during this wonderful season of the year. Maybe we can all concentrate on one Scrooge in our lives or on the national or international scene that we feel needs our prayers.

His Grace. His love. His redemption…

Would You Read On? hosted by Diana Flegal

Today we have the first page of another Middle Reader title. Let us know by your comments if you would read on.

Thump.

Porter Booth’s heart answered with a thump of its own and then stopped. He was sure of it. No way could it beat stuck up in his throat.

“What was that?” his cousin whispered.

“Shh!” Porter switched off his flashlight and squatted in the dark.

“What are you doing?”

“Shut up! Get down over here next to me.” Porter reached for James and got a wad of sweaty t-shirt. He held his breath and tried to figure out what was scuffling. “Hear that?” he whispered. “Someone’s coming.”

Sounds must be louder underground when you can’t see, he reasoned. He knew it was people noise, but who and how many? Friendly or dangerous? Kids like himself and James, or a gang down here to take care of business. Whatever business that was.

Dad was right. He shouldn’t have come back to the slough.

His dad hadn’t forbidden the entire length of the Hendricksville slough that carried storm runoff to the Tule River. Just the tunnel part under Main Street. Just this exact spot where he and James were squatting, listening to someone shuffle through a mine-like shaft a few feet away.

He blinked and tried to focus, but it didn’t make any difference in the dark. The artery to the outside was all the way across a cavernous clearing littered with old furniture and wooden barrels. They couldn’t make it through all that junk and out in time.

Porter pulled James toward what he hoped was an old bar front they’d seen against the wall. “Come on, we can hide behind the bar.”

James whistled as he sucked in a mouthful of dusty air. “I can’t breathe.”

“Be quiet!” James’s damp t-shirt stuck to Porter’s fingers. And he could smell it. Is that what would give them away—the sweat? Or would it be the squeaky breathing?

Last weeks submission was offered for comments by the brave writer Lauren Claire. You can find her on Face Book and at her blog titled, Cascading Thoughts. Stop by and offer this young writer an encouraging word.

Bittersweet by Linda S. Glaz

Well, I’ve just read, for at least the hundredth time, the Christmas stories from the Little House series. My heart melts each year as I read about the sacrifice of family from this delightful Ingalls clan. They had so little, but were all about their family.

Another tearjerker was a very old episode of Fury. Ask any baby boomer if you don’t know what this fifties series is about. In this particular one, Joey befriends two little boys who are very poor, and at Christmas, they exchange the same gifts they had the last few years, crayons and I think, a pocketknife. But each year, they exchange them again. It’s a great lesson for children about being grateful in all circumstances for what you have.

Most of my favorite book/shows are from the forties through the sixties. Each had a lesson, and each one was based on a strong story, not a bunch of cheap holiday laughs with sex at the center of the joke. Okay, okay, I’m really old-fashioned(as well as really old), and Christmas brings this out in me, but it also brings out the longing for family to be together.

I have one kiddo who lives close to home, but the other two are thousands of miles away. So Christmas, while my favorite time of year, holds bittersweet nostalgia as well as looking to the holidays’ joys and to the future.

As the days of eggnog and Christmas stockings approach, I read my favorites, watch my old standbys and on occasion, am known to shed a tear or twenty.

Take this opportunity to read or share some of your most cherished memories with those you love. What is your favorite book/show from your childhood?

Would You Read On? hosted by Diana Flegal

We welcome your comments today. Scroll down for last weeks author reveal.

Chapter One

The thrumming in her head started at the Essex County line and crescendoed into a pounding by the time she'd reached State Route 74. She wiped one hand, then the other on her jeans and gripped the steering wheel of her rented SUV. She was in control. She was Emily Hazard, assistant art director at an award-winning New York City advertising agency. Not Emily Hazard, the klutz-queen jinx-deluxe of Schroon Lake Central High School.

She drove through Hazardtown, the four corners community in New York's Adirondack Mountains that her ancestors had settled two centuries ago. Little remained to show the bustling logging town it had once been. A new name on the diner told her it had changed ownership again. The gas station convenience store proclaimed Souvenirs Here in a big red, white and blue roadside sign. Kitty-corner, the Community Church sat as it had for the past one hundred and fifty years with its double entry doors that had originally separated the women parishioners from the men. As a teen, Emily had made a point of entering through the men's door. The newish brick volunteer fire department building occupied the fourth corner. Ironically, the old clapboard hall had burned down when she was in college.

Paradox Lake came into view on the left. A patch of blue nestled in the greens and browns of the hardwoods and mountains surrounding it. Her heart beat double-time. As she came around the curve to Hazard Cove Road, a mama duck and her ducklings waddled onto the highway. She hit the brake pedal and sensed the pickup truck behind her before she heard the screech of its brakes. The truck touched the back bumper of the SUV and nudged her forward just short of the little family.

Last weeks First Page was bravely submitted by author Cindy Sproles. Her agent is excitedly shopping around her manuscript.