Different Drummer
My words churn and twist
insanity and pandemonium
visions of surreal ideas
orgasms of spouted thoughts
siphoned brain waves
My words bleed along edges
masked metaphors
chanting syllables
random and scattered
dancing, dangling nuances
Words encrypted to decipher or not
sublime flawed connections
sexy syllables of passion
stray words across canvas
reaching for lemon drop moon
Innovative, ground breaking concepts
spawning and creeping into light
opening up repressed vibes
scratching open barrier walls
pain sketched on stiff spines
Refusal to cross ‘t’s’ and dot ‘i’s’
provocative pregnant pauses
hoodwinking and finesse
floating Bohemian thoughts
begging for insight
inside writer’s free mind.
Chapter One
Linda Hughes-Reed owed me big time, and I was about to collect. My wide-bottomed, rear end lodged deep in the leather passenger seat of a triple-black ’86 Corvette convertible; top down, music blaring; heater cooking my deck-shoed, sockless feet; cool, misty midnight October air waving wildly through what was left of my thinning brown hair. Flying low on I-4, eyeballing the Bee Line Expressway. Heading to a near-mystical place called Eckler’s in Titusville on Florida’s East Coast. Going to the 1992 version of “The Reunion,” a gathering that this year would celebrate “America’s Sports Car” reaching a milestone: the one-million mark. Thinking to myself, “Life is good” . . . and it was.
My pilot for this ground-level flight was Martin (pronounced Mar-teen) Gonzales, a Tampa native who’d parlayed his late father’s failing Spanish AM radio station into an all-talk, all-English, powerhouse that featured (among others) a controversial syndicated host named Rush Limbaugh. Ybor City’s Cuban community hated that Marti had dropped the money-losing, Spanish-language programming that had railed against Castro and Communism. Tampa’s media elite hated that he broadcast Limbaugh’s fiery brand of conservatism. He casually dismissed the criticism.
Cada cabeza es un mundo," Marti said, translating (for me) this Cuban proverb as, “Every head is a world of its own.”
I’d met Marti as a result of an article I’d done for Florida! magazine—an article Linda nearly spiked. I wondered how things would have turned out if she hadn’t listened when I told her to push off her annual hurricane edition until the September issue. She thought I was crazy and said so—in that earthy, slice-and-dice way that only a former cop-shop reporter can convey. But I pushed back (I’d shoveled through a few miles of police logs myself.) Sold her. Cajoled her. Won her over to a cover story called “When the Big One Hits,” convinced it would sell issues of her magazine, and, after all, I asked, “Isn’t that why you became a publisher in the first place?”
In the end, she agreed, but not before threatening to throw me off the St. Petersburg Pier if the idea flopped. I ended being right—and lucky. It wasn’t the first time I’d been either.
When Linda’s September issue hit newsstands in mid-August, nature had yet to produce its first named storm of the hurricane season, which runs from June 1 to Nov. 30. The magazine cover featured a stunning, computer-generated illustration of a massive storm bearing down on South Florida. The graphic, done by a student at the Ringling School of Art in Sarasota, had a wonderful trompe l'oeil quality: It seemed to float above the page.
The day after Florida! hit shelves, Tropical Storm Andrew hit radars, following the same path as the magazine’s faux storm, which I had christened “Zoey.” Issues of Florida! were tossed into shopping carts along with shrink-wrapped batteries, bottled water, and duct tape. For the first time in the publication’s history, it sold out.
People dubbed Ms. Hughes-Reed a journalistic genius. Shrewd. Crafty. Prescient. Fans of Florida! (her hip, breezy state rag) wined-and-cheesed her. Critics, who had smirked at the idea of publishing a hurricane edition halfway through the season, just whined. It didn’t matter. She’d made the right call. Gutsy. Now she basked like the Florida Gator she was, even though her success had come about because she’d listened to an FSU drop-out like me.
All I asked in return was for Linda to accept from me (her favorite freelancer) a trinket of a story titled “Fantastic Plastic, Florida’s Corvette Connection.” It was a serendipitous by-product of my meeting Marti. He’d read my hurricane article and hired me as a commentator during his around-the-clock Andrew coverage. (When I noticed framed photos of his beloved six-speed “Belleza Negra” plastered around the studio, I sensed a story.)
“If you like Belleza, you should join me for a little party I’ve planned,” he said.
I did not know, at the time, the party was for a car.
CHAPTER TWO
A crowded donut stand, a country block from the Eckler warehouse entrance, would have been an ideal place to stop, had there been parking, but Marti, who I’d long since learned to trust regarding planning ahead, was prepared: He stopped behind a beat-up trailer that appeared abandoned beside the unadorned, whitewashed building—then hopped out of the Vette, flipped down the fold-up ramp, and drove aboard, wisely letting me disembark first, for he knew that coordination was not one of my gifts-on-loan from God.
We headed inside.
A thin, golf course-tanned, hyper-manicured man who’d been saving a table for us stood up and waved. He wore a pastel creamy-green Polo shirt, perfectly ironed white Bermuda shorts, a toasty-brown, intricately knotted belt with a wrought-iron buckle, and fancy air-friendly shoes that look like they’ve been wicker-woven by fussy elves.
“Here’s Jack Sanders,” Marti said. “They call him Smilin’ Jack. He used to do PR for GM. He’ll answer all your questions.”
“At least some of them,” Jack said, “And you must be Sam, Marti’s writing friend.”
“The very same . . .”
“What’ll you have?” Marti asked as he headed to the counter, where a long line corkscrewed through the aisle.
“Plain cake donut. Black coffee,” I said
I pulled out two pens, a small notebook, and my portable tape recorder.
“Do you mind?” I asked.
“Not at all,” Jack said. “Marti prepared me for your interrogation tactics. Plus, I spent time in a German prison camp, so I can endure just about anything.”
I understood why they called him “Smilin’ Jack.” He bore an uncanny resemblance to Zack Mosley’s World War Two cartoon strip aviator, right down to the square jaw, pencil-thin mustache, and slick-combed hair, neatly parted in the near-middle. The only difference: Jack’s turf had long since turned Dover white. And he was more on the wiry side than his pen-drawn counterpart, but even at age 71, he looked formidable.
“Where do we start?” he asked.
I flipped on my recorder.
“Wherever you like.”
* * *
On September 30, 1938, Neville Chamberlain talked of “Peace with honor” and “Peace in our time.” The Sanders family pondered those words as they crackled through the cloth-covered speakers of the large, majestic, wood-encased, Silvertone radio that dominated the living room’s north wall of his Indiana home.
While the broadcast commentators droned on about what the Prime Minister’s Munich agreement with the German Führer might mean, Jack’s eyes shifted from his father’s tense expression to the radio’s ornate, softly lit, golden dial, with its stylized numbers grandly surrounding an Art Deco sun and stars. Three elegantly scripted words on the Silverstone’s face jumbled inside his head: “American,” “Foreign,” “Aviation.” It seemed a cryptic puzzler. What apocalyptic vision might this trinity foreshadow?
“The commentators all sound hopeful,” Jack said.
“Means war,” his father growled, puffing on his well-worn, hand-crafted, walnut root Castleford pipe. “You can’t surrender to a bloody lunatic like Hitler.”
Then he puffed, deeply.
“Means war,” he repeated.
Jack knew better than to disagree with his father, a veteran of The Great War, and a successful businessman whose Buick dealership had survived the Great Depression.
Though Jack was American by birth, the family had deep roots in England. His paternal grandfather was born in Cardiff, but his ancestors were all Devonians. Jack’s father left Great Britain just after the First World War for reasons unstated, but it had something to do with his having no desire to undertake a career in civil service. (He was the only Sanders with a keen entrepreneurial spirit.)
John worked his way to the States as a cook on a decrepit freighter, saved enough money to buy a fine suit, then trudged around trying to find a job before walking into a Buick showroom just as the Roaring ’20s unfurled. The Englishman’s handsome looks and dignified manner belied a slim purse, but he had determined that the streets of America were paved with gold, and he would mine the former colonies to their depth. The Buick would be his shovel—and an able tool it proved.
By the time Alfred P. Sloan, Jr., took over as GM president and writer/traveler Lowell Thomas was traversing Afghanistan’s tough terrain in a Buick circa 1923, the popular marquee’s top salesperson was a Brit. Within five years, he opened the doors of Sanders Buick, bankrolled by shrewd business maneuvers, not the least of which was marrying the daughter of a banker, one of his customers.
Jack saw in his father the foundational strength he knew England would need if war came. He felt he had an obligation to defend a homeland he never knew. But how?
The following year produced answers.
* * *
Harley J. Earl, GM’s first design chief, created a concept car called the Y-Job. Thanks to his father’s friendship with Earl, Jack feasted on it firsthand.
Y-job was like nothing he’d ever seen: It was long and low—20 feet from stern to bow, yet less than five feet tall. While other cars were square and boxy, Y was curved, black and beautiful. The crisp chrome grill was horizontal with thin, vertical bars. Headlights were hidden and power-driven, as was the convertible top, cleverly covered by a wide, smooth lid that slipped into a space behind the passenger compartment. It had electric doors and windows. Recessed taillights. Power steering. No running boards. An advanced braking system. Plus, it boasted just two seats.
“How do you like my baby?” an obviously proud Earl asked.
“It’s beautiful,” Jack said, exhaling the word in a way typically reserved for Hollywood starlets.
“Would you like to take it for a drive?”
Jack nodded.
“Jump in.”
Jack could not remember where they drove, only that he felt like a character in a Jules Verne novel who'd slipped into the future.
“Can I tell my father he’ll be selling these, soon?”
“No,” Earl smiled. “But tell him he’ll being seeing details from the Y here and there.”
Earl asked Jack about his future—and if he’d considered a career at General Motors.
“After the war, perhaps,” Jack said.
Earl’s face tightened.
“Years away, if at all,” he said.
“Not for me,” Jack said. “I’m trying to find a way to go to England. Fight the good fight.”
Earl’s smile returned.
“When you come back, see me.”
“I will,” Jack said.
On September 1, 1939, Germany invaded Poland. Jack’s father was right. War came and, by May 10, 1940, Chamberlain was gone, a victim of his appeasement policy. As Sophocles wrote, “The greatest griefs are those we cause ourselves.” Meanwhile, Jack was encouraged by the reassuring words of Winston Churchill, the new Prime Minister:
"Arm yourselves, and be ye men of valor, and be in readiness for the conflict; for it is better for us to perish in battle than to look upon the outrage of our nation and our altar."
Jack vowed that day to become a “man of valor.” It took awhile to make good on that promise.
By Thanksgiving, through his father’s contacts, Jack learned that Americans were covertly being recruited for the Royal Air Force at the Grand Central Aerodrome in Glendale, California. With his father’s support, but against his mother’s wishes, he headed West. (She would die before his return, a passing whose pain never fully healed.) RAF pilot testing was collegial, sprinkled with nods, winks, and humor. No mention of the mission was made. (America was, after all, neutral.)
There were British instructors as well as Americans; Jack scored well with both.
“You’ll do fine,” quipped Clyde Becker from Sutton Bridge, an Operational Training Unit on England’s east coast. “At least you shouldn't have much trouble with the language.”
Staff Development Day
("Think Outside the Lines!")
By the time we get to the venue
our department table is filled
so we sit at an empty one
on the edge of the auditorium.
As our coworkers laugh
like the cool kids at school,
we fill up on stale bagels
and coffee that tastes like
charcoal and heartburn
and study the day’s agenda
(holy fuck, the ice breaker
is an hour long!)
and try not to look too desperate,
as seats fill around us.
Introductions are made,
the speaker thanks us for the
honor of being there and
…organizations work together to
demonstrate the creativity
and innovation happening in…
two members of the admin team,
late to the party, join us at
the rejects table. We stiffen,
straighten up unconsciously,
hide our game of hangman
and doodles, take copious notes
…only YOU get to define the
parameters of this game…
as the cool table laugh and talk
loudly among themselves
the admin women stir
and mutter to each other,
a storm is brewing
right in front of us,
and I nudge my coworker
…this is about how you present
yourselves to the community…
I could warn my friends, but
I don’t. One of the ladies,
the one with the severe gray bob,
cat-eye glasses, mouth twisted down,
marches over to them
and "whispers" loudly, so that
the entire auditorium can hear:
Y’all are being too loud
and distracting—show
some respect.
The table silences at once
and the speaker continues
as if nothing has happened
…we want to be active versus
passive—we want people
to come to us…
How to receive and give critique
(Some rambling from me, you can ignore.)
So, critique, or mayhap we should call constructive criticism, or how about...
You suck, die!
Okay, not the last one, but it feels that way sometimes when you receive critique. Giving critique is hard as well, we often forget what it feels to receive it, and thus we can cut too deep.
Critique should be the first step your book takes before being offered up to the gods for sacrifice, err, for review by an editor. It plays an important role. A lot of bestselling authors use critique groups as they move their novel along, they call them beta readers. What they set out to do is help find plot issues, dialogue problems, and other such snags. All in the name of building up the book for publication. But there are rules!
Namely, duels are only one on one, no fighting on holy ground, and there can be only one.
Wait, no, um, the rules are of Critique:
1. Be positive.
2. Be specific.
3. Give suggestions.
These rules can be summed up thus, Don't be a Douche!
This holds whether you be the Critique giver or the receiver.
This is great...
The real goal should be growth and progress. Critique or constrictive criticism is just that, constructive. It is meant to build up, not tear down.
However, being nothing but positive is dangerous, it doesn't not allow for growth. Being told you are awesome and amazing may be true about some of your work, but hearing nothing but that can cause an inflated sense of skill and worth. In time, you could blunder badly, and in way that sears into the minds of your readers in a way that is irreversible. Star Wars Prequels anyone?
There will be problems, accept it. We are human and prone to issue of translating words within the brain to paper. They can get screwed up in their travel. Often that translation, ever so slightly off, will still make sense to you, but others don't use your brain and won't get it.
Their will be typos.
This is great, but...
When people say, "but" they aren't eviscerating your work, or shouldn't be. This is the point of critique, you are asking for help to find problems, don't be surprised when they exhume and expose issues.
So, besides catching typos and helping with simple editing, the far reaching goal should be helping you shape your story. Your character might not be moving along in the story the way you think, he could even be unlikable, unless you want that. Your dialogue could be stilted or monotone. Your sentences might just run along to much and use to many unnecessary words that are redundant with their expressed thoughts or improper references to weirdness with a strange flow of verbs that convey improper emotions of the protagonists and his underlining motivations... okay, running dry here, I hope the point is taken.
The goal of critique is to aid you in rounding the edges and deburring the sharp bits. All in an effort to prepare your manuscript for an editor, or the 6th draft.
Bestselling authors use critique groups for a reason, they work.
This looks off to me...
While I am not an editor, I can help catch missing words, typos, repeated words, and sentences that are wonky.
I do think you should be specific in your critique; however, it should be in the form of suggestions, not "rewrite the sentence exactly like this." This is a problem I see this too often with critique, people will out right rewrite whole swaths of another's work, and expect them to follow their rewrite in the guise of aiding them stop their bad writing. But that is not critique, that is editing, they want critique. Helping with the small stuff is fine, repeated word or phrases, excessive passive, weirdly worded sentences, repeated word or phrases, these can be distracting to the flow. Excise them. Fix them. Nudge them into proper prose befitting your style. Critique should help with that.
Try this...
I suck, I use too much passive voice, it grinds into my work. I try to beat it out. Rehash and rework sentences, poke and prod the words. But I still leave some passive behind in the wake of editing. I like passive, I don't like too much active voice. The short clip sentences can feel mechanical to me. They seem to lack flow and flair.
That is me, that is how I feel. I want to write like me-- you should write like you.
So when I give critique I try to let this guide me. I try to do my best to give suggestions on sentences; I may just put the sentence in (your words here) and put "rework" after. I may also give a quick reason for my issues, but I leave it to you to decide. I want it to stay in your own words and let you fix the issues.
Because I look at them as suggestions I therefore accept that you may disregard what I have said, and you have every right to.
Many years ago I was part of a writing group and after reading one of my stories I was giving this advice about my two main characters who are brothers. "One should be way dumber than the other."
Bad suggestion, maybe, maybe not. But for me it was, I threw it in the trash. I didn't argue with the person, or attack the suggestion. Okay, I am kind of doing that now, I just didn't go on the defense and disregard it immediately. I understood why the suggestion was made; she wanted a clear cut distinction between my characters because she felt they were too much alike. I decided that the suggestion didn't work for my story. The understanding helps guide me, dumber, no, though I could make some differences with them clearer.
Don’t be a douche…
This is the most important, for all parties involved. Sound critique given kindly, will help, but if you attack the critique or the one who gave it, you may find yourself unable to find helpful critique later. If you as the one giving the critique attack or disembowel the author, then why should they listen? Remember, rewriting sentences the way you would write them, or how you like to see them written is attacking their work. You are taking their voice. Give suggestions on how they could fix them, but don’t insist they change them out right.
They are asking for critique not editing.
We are doing creative writing here, there is a lot of leeway when it comes to what rules are followed. Most of us are not writing a scientific paper being published for peer review or an essay for school in the MLA format. A good number of "proper" English rules can be thrown out.
Creative writing allows for imagination, individualism, and most importantly, creativity. It is right there in the name.
Final thought...
I tend to give my critique on Prose in private messages. I am not saying everyone should do so, but I feel in doesn’t put a public spotlight on problems. Plus, it is easier to ignore me if you wish.
So here is my suggestion.
1. Don’t be a douche canoe.
A Story Almost Told
Prologue
This is the story of a trying to make a dream of having my screenplay produced come true and how it turned into a nightmare that would haunt me for decades.
A blink of an eye that seemed to last a lifetime and touched so many lives. It was an odyssey that traversed three continents. The array of friends, politicians, stars, police, wannabes and crooks came together without being aware of their participation in it. As bizarre as it may seem later, all those named herein did knowingly or unknowingly play a role. Some were totally innocent others intentionally not.
I started innocently on a path to make a dream come true. Destiny played a series of sick tricks diverting my original path in unimaginable ways. I still don't understand how or why any of this happened.
So much was lost on the way to this day. More than a quarter of a century has passed, yet I am unsure whether this is ending a chapter in my life or creating a new highway from a winding path.
Are these words and pages cathartic or reopening deep and old wounds? Being honest, I don't know the answer to this question. Only finishing the task at hand can lead there. We'll all learn together.
Let me assure you, everything you are about to read really did happen. It happened to me and around me. As unlikely as it will seem, it is so. I wish I could be creative enough to lay out such a complex novel. This is non-fiction. I wish to hell it wasn't.
I had to decide whether to clean up the language and make this prettier than it was or is. I can't do that.
This tale was lived by the seats of my pants Buckle up, it's not for the faint of heart. Hell, there are times Stephen King would have screamed like a little girl.
Thanks for becoming part of my story.
Just some thoughts for Prose and Prosers.
So, I apologize in advance to what may be a long winded and needless run of reasoning that could easily be said in a few words. This is me, it is how I get my thoughts out, I feel I need to have a stout and sturdy foundation in order to build my opinion up and properly explain myself (I blame my dad).
Keep in mind what follows is just my opinion.
Apparently I missed a fairly interesting post by one of the Posers who also helps run the site. It appears to have been removed. I found out about it from Broken_Toe and he and I discussed it at length. Here are some things to think on.
You, my fellow Proser, have written something, be it for just your wall, mayhap a portal, or even a contest. You have spent time, poured your heart into, reread and edited, trim some fat or added meat. Then you may have had another read it for editing and suggestions. A deadline looms for the contest and yet you persevere and so, after hours or maybe even days you post your work and present your best—you get readers, but only 1% of those readers like it. You factor in taste and the genre bridge, but you still feel you should be seeing more likes or reposts. Is it ego? Are your fellow Prosers seeing that little heart and think it means love, and they say, “Well I like it, but I don’t love it.” Even though we all know it means “like” despite the heart symbol universally represents love. That could be why Facebook uses thumbs up… So, maybe they still think love deep down and hesitate. Now, imagine this has happen ten times or more. What do you feel? Rejection? Frustration? Do your posts taper off?
We could consider our “wages” for the works we have wrought the likes, reposts, comments, and followers. If we don’t received wages we may consider our works worthless.
If there seems to be no return for your effort, you think about giving up.
Granted, we should be investing our “wages” back into Prose with likes, reposts, comments, and following of other Prosers. Side note, I will be the first to admit I am not the best at this. I try, I will try harder. I need too anyway, my goal is to be a Partner.
So, some truths.
Writing is hard. It is work. We may write because we love to, but this DOES NOT negate the fact that it is still work. We seek validation, we want our fellow writers to enjoy it and tell us we have done well. If you spend a lot of time writing, then it is a job. Jobs require compensation. I love my job. But some days I don’t want to go to work. Some days I even hate my job. Some days I feel I am not paid enough to deal with all the shit.
But I get paid, actual money.
The people running this site should be paid. Currently they are not. They started like most of us. Eager even, while trying build up the site, thus making it a haven for fellow writers. We had many posts from them not too long ago, Motivation Mondays, Two for Tuesdays, Throwback Thursdays, Five for Fridays. There were the occasional interviews with authors or actors on top of Friday Feature, all to help, encourage, and build us up, the Prosers. I don’t remember if there was anything on Wednesday, but screw Wednesday.
Where are those now?
Money no doubt is running out. They are not being paid for their hard work and so they are not putting in the extra effort beyond keeping Prose up and running, along with coming up with fun and interesting sponsored challenges. I don’t blame them, I understand, I accept this. I would do the same.
For all I know they are paying the $100 winnings out of their pocket.
Running The Prose website is like an iceberg. Most of us only see the tip, not realizing over ¾ of the size is unseen below the water. Website and app bugs, contests, emails and instant messages to respond to, and even, I am sadly sure, trolls and out right needless bitching about other Prosers.
Do you like Facebook? Like those ads? Like how after shopping on Amazon you see ads for the stuff you looked at popping up on the Book of Faces?
I don’t.
Do you know how much Facebook makes off your information? They make about $6 per person per month to sell your information to AD companies. That is it. They are only making about $60 a year off of you. Is it worth the invasion into your privacy?
Think about this. $100 weekly challenge, 52 weeks, $5200 paid out a year.
We now have to pay 50 cents to enter said $100 contest, meaning Prose needs 200 entries per contest just to break even on each challenge. The last two paid challenges had only about 50-60 entries. They are still losing money.
What can be done? The short and easiest answer is-- ADS.
BOOO!
That will suck, so how can we fix this without wallowing in that quagmire?
Humble suggestion-- paid memberships. Everyone, whether paid member or not will still get access to all Prose has to offer.
But with membership comes perks.
50 cents per sponsored challenge equals $2 a month at $24 a year. So let’s start there. A $24 paid membership allows free entry into paid to enter weekly challenges. That could be the only perk or there could be more. But if that was it, Prose would only need 240 paid memberships to cover the cost of a year’s weekly challenges.
More than 240 paid memberships, that extra money is cheddar. It could pay the actual Prosers who run the site. Maybe get extra challenges with bigger purses.
It would work like a gym membership; they make money knowing not everyone is going to use the membership to the fullest. So not every paid member will use their credit to enter every Prose sponsored contest and they would still draw money from non-paid members entering weekly contest at 50 cents.
I say again, the paid membership would be an option, NOT a requirement.
But imagine, $24 paid membership-- 1000 paid Members means $24,000 to run the website and improve the overall Prose experience. What about 2000 paid members? What could be done with that to help us all?
Perks?
I said already, allowed to enter Prose sponsored challenges for free. What should the other perks be? Well besides supporting a site we all love, it could help it stay ad free, and pay for the running of the site. I don’t know if there should be other perks; as they may be considered an advantage non-paid membership Prosers don’t have access too.
What do you all think? Should there be other perks?
I also think there should be more time for deciding the winner of the $100 contests. You would still have a week to enter, but why couldn’t it be announced the following week, or even two weeks later? This gives more time to vet each entry and judge its merit. I am not saying this is not done now, but I am certain there is a bit of haste to it. A bigger span of time would ease the pressure.
And the judging can’t be easy. I will admit I am not completely sure as to how this goes down currently.
But, what if a paid Member, who also is a Partner, is thrown into the judging pool? Judges could num up to a dozen, and rotate out, like Jury duty. Again, just to ease the pressure.
These are just ideas and my opinion. They mean nothing really to anyone but me.
I will also admit, I will be cringing when I hit the post button. Fearing to see what you all think and how you will react.
“Peace is” My Wife of 39 Years
The beautiful blue sky glowed behind the soft white clouds drifting aimlessly across the distance landscape. Shadows danced gracefully over the green restful plains, blending the gentle light of morning,— offering a reprieve of the darkness that follows all our lives. Sleep is how we hide from the depth of our trials when we are alone in our dreams, hiding from despair. But your love is the guiding light that awakens the spirit of hope within no matter the blackness of the night. My treasure shared as we walk through the glory of togetherness. Your soft green eyes,— like pools of emeralds, sparkling with life,— calm my weary soul when the anxieties are too hard to bear. The touch of your hand and caressing embrace,— your soft voice is the breeze that refreshes and brings tranquility, warmed in your arms. You are my peace in a life of pain,— the restful scenery of pleasure, offering life to the tired soul. You are my meaning in a reservoir of doubt, the dream I awaken to that is my reality. My sanctuary where I am never alone, because you are always with me; and peace is the blessing I have been granted because I’m yours.
1 Day To Go - Why Prose is Unique
Hey, Prosers,
The Bookstore launch is only bloody tomorrow!!
We are anxious, nervous, excited, and a bunch of noises that portray all of them.
Today's giveaway is a big one. It's the last one. One of you will get 2000 coins to spend in the Bookstore. Watch out wordporn, this winner is going to devour you!
So, how do you get your mitts on the coins? Share this post as many times as possible on all social platforms, then come and comment (again, on this post) and tell us how many times you've shared it. Don't go telling us porky pies (lies) though, we will find out.
All winners will be announced tomorrow!
Over the lifetime of Prose, we've always tried to pinpoint exactly what it is that makes Prose unique. It's taken us a long-ass time, but we think we've nailed it now, and we'd like to share it with you.
There are a couple of things that we know will make Prose even more unique, (if that's possible), but we can't share those with you just yet, because they're coming soon, and top secret. We like to build a little suspense - what story doesn't?
1) Bookstore
Launching tomorrow, our Bookstore is set to flip the publishing world the right-side up. The author-side up. Taking the greed out of the industry and kicking it in the books. (No, not balls, books.)
Our royalties will be the fairest in the whole industry, and we offer the flexibility to sell your content your way. Whether you want to sell short stories, books per chapter, or whole books, Prose will support you. You set your own prices and you'll never be penalised. Want to offer your book as a freebie? No sweat, do it.
2) Copyright
Your copyright always remains your own with Prose. Which, in turn, gives you the freedom to distribute your words wherever you choose. We don't bind you in with exclusivity contracts or penalise you when you share your words elsewhere.
3) No Censorship
We've always made this very clear to everyone. We do not, nor will we ever, censor your words. Words are there for us to use, and it'd be a shame to leave some of the more colourful ones out, right? You want to cuss? Do it. We aren't stopping you. Want to write something really mature? Go for it. The world needs your words, warts and all.
4) Challenge Stream
Okay, some of you may say, "it's just a challenge stream," but it's a place of collaboration. A place where people from all across the world inspire each other. And to us, there isn't anything quite as unique as that.
5) Letters from Prison
Prose made a promise that we would take on philanthropic endeavours to use the power of words to improve lives. We've fulfilled that promise by taking Prose into prison. Each week we set the residents tasks, and then post their poems and stories in the Letters from Prison Portal. You guys have been commenting on those posts and we've then taken those comments back to the prison for the residents to read. The results we have seen are outstanding. The power of their words, and your words, have had a profound affect on the residents. Boosting confidences, reducing anxiety, and anger. We are giving these people a voice with a non-judgemental ear to listen.
6) Portals
Talking of Portals, we think all of our Portals are pretty unique. If you're a reader, and haikus are your thing, there's a Portal for that. We've a huge amount of Portals for writers to fill and readers to devour.
7) Unique content
Not only do we have the unique content from the residents in prison, but we have unique content being written on Prose, everyday. If you are a voracious reader like we are on the Prose team, you will never, ever run out of fresh and unique content to read. It is, hands down, some of the best content we have ever read, period.
8) The community /social integration
We have saved the best till last. It should come as no shock to you that you, our wonderful community, are the best and most unique thing about Prose. When you think about social media, a lot of you will think about trolls, unnecessary comments made by a bunch of keyboard warriors. Judgemental minds and unsupportive groups. Not here. Not on Prose. This community is the best and most unique community we have ever seen. Without you all of the other unique things wouldn't be possible. Without you, there would be no Prose. Keep doing what you're doing. There are no words to thank you enough for being here.
Tomorrow we launch a new chapter of our story, and we are taking you all along for the ride. Our partnership with each and every one of you will continue, and we promise to always put you all in the forefront of our minds for every decision we make.
Until tomorrow, our launch, Prosers,
Prose.