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The Emporium Gazette |
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Issue 19 -- November 2000
Consider what it might be like for writers in the future. How will our lives change as technology
matures? To this end, we've put together
some stories and articles Who knows what tomorrow brings?
WRITING SYNOPSES THAT SELL!
TAXING THE 2050 WRITER
THE SUPER-HUMAN HIGHWAY
LUNA NINE'S MODEM CENTER
ROUND ROBIN
IN THE BEGINNING
THE EMPORIUM PATH
WRITING SYNOPSES THAT SELL! Many writers buy into the old myth that writing a synopsis is about as difficult as trying to get some response from little green men living on the moon. Nothing could be farther from the truth. True, writing a synopsis that works is akin to gathering pieces of a crashed UFO and trying to put them into some logical order that resembles an extraterrestrial space craft. You work with the big chunks because they're the easiest to find, as well as the easiest to assemble. Look for the shiniest pieces, too, because these parts will attract the attention of an editor or an agent. The biggest misconception among writers is that you must conform to a standard synopsis that is written from third person and chronologically lists events in a flat, no-nonsense style. While there is nothing wrong with this basic concept, ascribing to it will usually shoot down your manuscript in the same manner that the military shoots down UFO sightings. This type of synopsis produces a flat, boring, plodding outline that does nothing but turn a reader toward a new manuscript with an exciting synopsis. Agents and editors are looking for that one person who has the greatest splash of color, one who sparkles like strange lights on the horizon. Remember: there are no new stories, only well-decorated ones. Avoid placing your synopsis in suspended animation. Instead, pump in fresh oxygen by adding emotion, tone, and characterization. The reader will want to know these things about your story so why not give him something exciting and interesting right from the start? A synopsis is an opportunity for you to demonstrate your command of writing. Use it! Think of your synopsis as an abbreviated short story and approach it as such when you design it. To begin creating your synopsis, you need to be able to summarize your story in four or five words. If you can't do this, then you aren't clear about your plot. For instance, Huckleberry Finn in its simplest form is: boy floats down river. The story of The Three Musketeers broken into a few words is: guards save queen. Once you know what your novel is about, you can add an exciting beginning, an exciting middle, and an exciting end. Give your character the ship's controls by letting him tell the story in your synopsis. Let him set the intimate voice, the background, and the plot. Lace your synopsis with action verbs and modifiers. Snippets of dialogue or scenes framed around your synopsis can only enhance the curiosity of your reader--and that's what you want. Start with a paragraph that blasts right by other synopses at the speed of light and don't stop until you reach the second star beyond Alpha Centauri. Oh, and watch out for that meteor! * * * * * Denise Vitola has published eleven novels, all sold by following the preceding advice. Her new sci-fi/mystery series, The Astrologer, published by Penguin/Putnam, debuts in February 2001. Available in bookstores everywhere.
This issue of the Emporium Gazette's graphics This simple, yet elegant web page set is called Autumn
Vines Free graphics, web page sets, backgrounds at
It's here!! Denise Vitola's chilling novel of terror. Available as a first edition e-book from Cool Well Publishing. Go to: http://www.CoolWell.org/winterman/index.html to read a chapter excerpt of this best selling story.
The Emporium Gazette is looking for submissions. WHAT ARE WE LOOKING FOR??? Each issue of the Emporium Gazette usually has at least one short story, and an article or two that relates to the art of writing. We also do interviews, an ocassional poetry column and will attempt to let you know of writing opportunities we feel are noteworthy. We've even had a recipe or two! Articles that look at the process of writing in new and provocative ways. The Emporium Gazette attempts to show the newbie and old-timer pros a dfferent perspective of the business. Interviews of those who are in the business of writing: novelists, short story writers, screenwriters, poets, editors and agents. Poetry articles that detail the art of rhyme and rhythm. Short Stories of almost any genre with a length of no more than 1000 words. WHERE TO SUBMIT? Send your submissions to: Ron Jones at snowman1@cavemen.net PAYMENT At the present time we are a non-paying ezine. We provide a valuable service to the writing arena and for you, the writer, it's a valid and valued publishing credit.
Taxing the 2050 Writer
There are a whole bunch of things that are easier about life in the mid-twenty-first century. I'm delighted to tell you that taxation is one of them. In fact, it's a focal point for many things, and the process itself is a far cry better than it was fifty years ago. People alive then were just getting into computers, but they had to spend hours filling out forms on their screens and then wasting millions of trees printing the dumb things on paper. We don't use natural paper anymore at all for anyting. You just can't, and, with today's electronics and the Web, you don't need to. Everything's on the Internet now. SiliconTwo is in (or it was until the brain engram was developed in 2019); papyrus is definitely out, except where people gawk at it in museums. With no more paper, what's a writer to do? And how does that reality filter through the tax system? Those are tough, interwoven questions, and I'll try to answer them. The greedy little drones working for all levels of tax authorities solved their ultimate problem: voluntary compliance. That was an adorable euphemism (i.e., a bad joke) that made everyone feel good, but there was nothing voluntary about it fifty years ago or for the previous seventy-seven years before that. There isn't even a hint of that ludicrous term now in 2050. Let's look at the big picture and then examine the writer's angle. You see, everything is taxed at the source. If you sell an article or sign a book contract, whatever you earn from your labors is taxed at 70% before you ever see penny one. Your agent or publisher sends you an h-mail (hyper e-mail) telling you the total earnings figure. Your 30% appears in your bank account, and the agent h-mails the IRS their 70%. What about your state, county, or city? The IRS collects all their taxes for them, too, so you don't have to sweat that. Who doesn't like one-stop shopping? Just sit back in your ergonomic air-chair, push the enhanced mode switch, dial up a cup of coffee, take a swig, and be glad you get thirty percent. I know what you're thinking. We've all been there and successfully come back. Right now, your little brain is rebelling, thinking there has to be a way for Yankee ingenuity to beat what sounds like an oppressive system of confiscatory taxation. What about barter? I agree to do this for you in exchange for that from you. Nice try. You think you're the first to reach that brilliant plan for evasion? It won't work because all your interpersonal communication is done via h-mail. You chat with your friends, hassle your kids, pay your bills, gamble in any of the state lotteries, and everything else through h-mail. The h stands for headware. Yes, you now share gray matter space with the world wide web. Instant log-on with a thought. Once the electronic goobers found ways to tie bank accounts into the antiquated wire-ridden e-mail systems, there was no turning back. Moments after that first h-mail carried a few bucks at light-speed to pay off someone's bookie, the IRS introduced the painless pay-as-you-think system. Guess where all of the h-mail passes through en route to your bookie, kids, etc. You got it, Bunkie: the IRS. What about mistakes? The headware for all this comes from the IRS, and they don't make mistakes anymore. They acquired Microsoft in 2036, put Old Man Gates in a reeducation home, and never looked back. Surely, 2036 was the watershed year of this century. Hey, if you can't tax it, nationalize it. Same thing, right? The IRS has been doing that for centuries now, just like foreign countries. Now, the IRS issues everyone a unique voice/thought-signature with each individual's h-mail headware. Every time you send a communication of any kind, your computer automatically signs your social security number intermixed with your name to produce a unique algorhythm, which is your h-mail ID. Your recipient's computer unscrambles the algorhythm into a recognizable format. Voila! You're seen for who you are, and the person you've communicated with can then think the reply command and respond. If you've paid a bill this way, your goods- or services-provider uses the social security number component of your algorhythm as your account number. It's really a neat system, because the algorhythm can be traced right back to you. No mistakes. How is all this possible? At birth, everyone is equipped with their computer as part of the routine childbirth process. The whole thing is no bigger than an old-style quarter. It's implanted in your cerebral cortex, pressured in actually without the need for surgery, and there it learns right along with you. It connects you to the Web right from the get-go. What does all this techno-wizardry do for the writer of mid-century? The possibilities are endless. Anything you or your agent can sell hits the Web faster than IRS agents' smiles are painted on their cherubic faces when they get their sixty-five percent. All we writers have to do is think through the plot and develop the characters. Our little electronic co-brains do the sorts and selects, overlay the results on one of the IRS-approved matrices and, zap!, there you have it. Originality? Don't sweat that, either. Every year, the IRS comes out with a couple of new matrices for us. Each new approved matrix yields new character and plot possibilities of exponential proportions. There's something for everyone, and it gets better every year. So if you think the IRS is going to be gone or transmuted into a harmless entity, then think again. And while you're at it, sit back in your ergonomic air-chair, take a breath, and let the future warm you. * * * * * James G. Rogers, writing as James Gardiner, is author of Capitol Chill, an exciting and face paced action thriller.
COOL WELL PUBLISHING! The Writing Emporium has expanded to bring you the best bargains for your writing career. You can find new articles on writing, new fiction excerpts and you can now purchase Cool Well's first ebook publication--Denise Vitola's best selling novel, THE WINTER MAN. And that's not all! Open the doorway into Denise Vitola's web design studio, Cool Well Trading Company, and you will find free linkware and commercial web sets to help you develop Internet presence and sell your writing. Go to: http://www.CoolWell.org
The Super-Human Highway Picture a superluminal light wave of data hitting the center of your eye, traveling through your mind where cerebral, biochip processors pick up the incoming pulse of light and translate the information to suit your unique brain wave patterns. Instantly you gain full awareness of the transmitted data. What’s the product? Instant information, the latest in advanced medical research, the newest cereal on the market. You can now order anything and provide any service by thinking your way back into those parallel processors from where the information came. The year is 2050. No more hunt-and-peck typing like in 2000. That tedium became obsolete as processors evolved into molecular components to the tune of Moore’s Law. It’s as true now as it was in the early part of the twenty-first century: computers double in capability every eighteen months. Cellular biochips shame that relic of a PC. Biochips make those old motherboards look like rotary phones with communication lumbering at the pace of a snail. We now live and breathe in a world where the government taxes on the basis of each thought transaction. Want to make a new stock purchase? Think into the multi-faceted web of mingling financial reports and buy or sell any time of the day or night. Want to learn something new? Think into your palm cluster. It’s individually manufactured to synchronize with your unique brain waves. It’ll fire information right into your mind that you used to acquire through CD ROMs and ancient web sites. Need to pay those bills that used to linger for weeks in that e-mail box? There are no more wireless transactions darting through the glistening, fiber-optic world of the internet any longer. With superluminal communications’ systems that fit in the palm of your hand and transmit beams of knowledge right into your eyes, you can now drive those dollar signs from your job site, to your palm cluster and access them immediately in your mind. Watch your money trickle into designated accounts at the electric company or VISA institution. Now you have the personal power you’ve always desired! You can access financial, medical and educational records by just thinking, download them into your palm cluster or send them to any site printer. Remember: the ethereal, sophisticated web we used to call our best friend and at times best business partner is now obsolete. In spite of its apparent uselessness, we did let it roll around our tongues like that frosty ice preparing us for the main course. Those days are long gone with the perfect medium in which we can now communicate and exchange information: direct mind links. This New World thought highway launches us into a state of cerebral evolution powered by our brains that we used to believe worked only at one eighth of their capacity. Your neighbor or family member can transmit what they really want you to know; and if they de-activate their cerebral filter to let you in, you can even feel their emotions that used to be lost to the physical barrier of bodily humanity. Respond instantly to a request or question. Direct your superluminal brain waves through your personal thought wardrobe in your palm cluster and enter a chat cloud. There you could provide solace, support and services. However, exercise caution when utilizing your newly-acquired, nebulous thought system. Moral prevention and cerebral therapy might seem like the perfect solutions in preventative care and maintenance when preserving a marriage or monitoring your thoughts prior to stealing that elusive, high-speed, thousand dollar bill or becoming absorbed in that tantalizing mind kiss. We all seek to make our lives more accessible to others, more comfortable in this chaotic world and more pliable to receive knowledge. We might also be seductively enticed into participating in many invisible fabrics of political, didactic and criminal monitoring systems that could leave our privacy on the doorstep. Willful compliance of preventative monitoring could invade our private thoughts and betray our deepest secrets. Our thoughts could become balm in the hands of secret societies who have a penchant for extracting personal information to exploit for their own evil purposes. What human being doesn’t now and then crave a desire to get a little information that could be used to blackmail someone and make a few extra bucks? Yes, in spite of all the advancements in technology, we’re still the same old selfish, materialistic people who want a soft retirement cushion and the latest in VW air car flight that a few extra and illegal monetary mind transfers could secure. If we’re not careful and adamant in protecting our right to privacy, we could one day be clamoring to return to a more simple time in that earlier twenty-first century when we let our fingers do the talking, our lips relay our thoughts and our brains impenetrable to human inquiry. This 2050 world void of all personal barriers may one day truly illuminate the old adage "good fences make good neighbors." By the way, before you venture into the ethereal chat cloud, make sure you thought-purchase the Information Overload Preventative Cerebral Bio-Dot (IOPCBd). An intravenous homing signal will automatically draw this precautionary biochip to the lower left hemisphere of your cerebral cortex. After all, soaring in this high-fidelity flight-light world could leave you with one giant headache if you ever should succumb to information overload while trying to read too many minds at once and discerning too many emotions at the same time. * * * * * Joyce Osterman has just completed two science fiction novels; The Matter Stream and Terra! She is also this year's winner of the Rupert Hughes award.
Luna Nine's Modem Center
Desmond Haltwit staggered through the darkness toward the muffled shouting and tripped over the makeshift metal packing crate that doubled as his dinner table, desk and a storage area for his meager possessions. He heard the neural helmet for the virtual entertainment center clank when it hit the floor and rattled across the room. The layout of his converted fourth-floor warehouse flat was still unfamiliar and the pitch black of the month-long Lunar nights didn't help. He picked himself up, muttering a curse at the low-slung crate and the two metal chairs that now served as his living room. Everything in his apartment was either glass or metal, but his fortune had changed. His new job would improve his existence. The hammering paused only a second before he heard the door's pressure-formed stone frame shattered and the steel door burst inward. Desmond staggered backward and nearly tripped a second time when his oversized boxer shorts fell to half-mast. Grabbing a handful of high-priced cotton and hoisting his drawers, he squinted into the glare of six hand-held sodium floodlights. When he saw the angry faces he threw up both hands with embarrassing results. "Police. Don't even think about resisting," a dark silhouette of an armed officer. "Spread them and hit the deck, now!" Desmond knelt while again hoisting his underwear, but with only two fingers. "Take it easy. You obviously have the wrong suspect." Six nine-millimeter pistols followed him toward the floor. "Please, there must be a mistake." Desmond squatted with his legs folded under him. At least with his legs spread he didn't have to worry about exposing himself again. It was only then that he realized what must have happened. The hoodlum with the stapled tongue upstairs had unsavory visitors knocking on his door at all hours. Even with the numbers painted plainly on the doors, it wasn't uncommon to have some desperate addict pound on this door by mistake. Desmond's spinster neighbor from down the hall had whispered that this same man not only sold narcotics, but fenced stolen goods, and pimped a little on the side. She'd even suggested that he might have something to do with a growing number of vanished colonists, implying he sold some of his deadbeat customers to long haul freighters as crew when they'd failed to pay. "I'm no criminal," he insisted. "You must have me confused with the hooligan in the apartment two floors up?" Desmond watched as one of the armed men plucked a surveillance photo from his shirt pocket, and checked it. The swat member nodded toward the officer with the gray hair. "See, you must have the wrong address. I haven't even been issued a traffic ticket. I know this place doesn't look like much, but I'm no vagrant." "So who do you work for and how long?" the elderly cop asked. "The city offered me a good-paying job processing mineral leases for the mining corporations operating outside the dome. I finished their battery of tests yesterday morning." "Wrong answer," the officer mumbled. A policewoman's boot struck him in the back and Desmond toppled, smashing his nose against the floor. "Lazy schuzball, that will teach you to flash us." He felt the weight of her knee in his back, pinning his bare chest against the cold stainless steel. He strained to look to his left into the eyes of the officer while his attacker cuffed his wrists with stun-manacles. The two males and other three females remained mute and business-like as the same officer patted down the only possible hiding place, his ill-fitting shorts. What the hell did she expect to find beside the obvious, or was she so impressed with the natural fiber that she got a perverted pleasure from feeling it? Up here about all most people could afford were perforated foil diapers. This had to be one of those tragic police snafus, the kind he'd read about in the papers that he'd found in the trash downstairs. Yet, Desmond wasn't about to risk taking a bullet to protest this rude treatment. Equal rights had gone a bit far, but maybe now he could shape the government to his liking, now that he was working for Luna Nine's council. He tried not to help as the female officer groped his privates, but he couldn't help when he flinched. "Don't make us get rough, Mr. Haltwit. We have a warrant for your arrest. If there has been a mistake, we'll sort through it downtown." "What about my door?" Desmond pleaded as they dragged him to his feet and hustled him down the hall toward the stairs. "Don't you realize what the Warehouse District is like? I won't have a stick of furniture left when I get home." "Don't worry, Mr. Haltwit. It will take our team at least three hours to search your home for contraband. By then we'll know if we have the wrong man. Besides, we'll tape off the area before we leave." The herd of police technicians waiting outside trampled toward his smashed door while bleary-eyed acquaintances stared from the safety of their doorways. Desmond shrugged as the swat team marched him past his obviously concerned neighbors. Feeling almost confident that the cops wouldn't shoot him while wearing cuffs in the midst of so many witnesses, he spoke up, "Whom, exactly, do you think your flimsy string of tape will stop? I told you that I'm innocent." "That's what they all say," the officer snapped as he shoved Desmond into the back of the patrol floater parked outside the fourth floor docking station. "Our prisons are crammed with you bastards. Every one claims to be innocent, even after the evidence has proven them guilty." ***** Desmond sat at the rickety, dented, metal computer terminal with the test displayed on the screen. Plastics required petroleum and that commodity remained more expensive than gold on the moon. He tried to concentrate, but his mind kept drifting back to his legal problems. It had been nearly a week and he still hadn't seen a judge. He'd made one televideo appearance, but couldn't tell who had been on the other end. He'd also been denied contact with his family, so as far as they knew, he'd become one more in the growing list of "vanished." These people weren't just names to Desmond. He'd known nearly two dozen of them from the university, and a half-dozen more from the neighborhood bookstore. "Damn it, Desmond! Concentrate, or you'll blow this, too." He forced himself to read the last in a long series of math problems and scribbled the correct answer. This simple exam reminded him of his new employer's test, but all Luna Nine's government agencies used standardized testing. Besides, he'd missed all four days of his new job's workweek. By the time he got out of here, he'd have lost any chance to explain. The door swung open and in marched one of the many guards that swarmed the halls. "Time's up, Haltwit. Put down the stylus and step away from the monitor." "Maybe you can tell me, Sergeant. When do I get my trial?" The officer cocked his head. "Are you nuts? That was your trial." "What? You must have misunderstood. When do I see the judge? According to Lunar law, every citizen has the right to a trial within a week of his arrest." "That test was your trial, fool." The officer twisted Desmond's cuffed wrists behind his back and marched him down a dark hallway. This was a dimly lit section of the city's jail that Desmond hadn't seen. "You intellectuals are all alike." "What do you mean?" Desmond peered into row after row of small cells as they marched past. He didn't need an answer. It was suddenly all clear. Inside each of the anti-gravity cells, a single prisoner floated weightlessly above the floor. Attached at the head, a neural helmet connected each prisoner with some function of the city's operation. Signs on the doors designated each department: sewer, environment, garbage, water, traffic control, police, fire, hospital, power, dome engineering, and even animal control. "If you did well, you'll be given the honor of serving your city, state, and nation. You should consider it an honor. You're preliminary tests showed you are in the top one thousandth of a percentile of our population. Damn you intellectuals! Mental computer modems are all you're qualified to do." * * * * * Ronald Wayne Jones is author of the new science fiction adventure, Black Breath of the Lutron, which is available now through 23House in both paperback book or a CD-rom ebook version.
The saga of The Summoning continues with this segment. Who could know where the story would go? Only YOU can tell us where the story will go. Read the guidelines and then submit your segment to us. ALL genres accepted. To read the story in its entirety: http://www.rolian.com/gazette/summons.htm And now, the next segment of: The Summoning She stood in the woods, alone. No, definitely not alone. Her lithe figure was home to hundreds of bloodthirsty souls of which Alyssa was merely a small voice. Within her the myriad voices roared for attention, each louder and older than Alyssa. She was a new creature with power no human could comprehend. The creature's senses tingled with heightened awareness. This was an experience that had been denied to these souls for thousands of years and they reveled in it. The smells and sounds of a forest remained very much as the old souls had left them. The taste of dew on the leaves, the sound of the animals, the feel of the ground under their feet spawned hundreds of memories within the creature's collective mind, but one sound drew their attention the most - the heartbeat. They listened with utter fascination at the beating of the heart - not just Alyssa's but the heartbeat of every animal in the jungle. They could hear and feel every heart for miles, and within this jungle heartbeat was the sound of the drums they dance to in life. They suddenly understood what they had been missing in life: the beat of the heart to the pounding drums, the total abandoned of all things but this beat. PRIMITIVE BUT CALM, FREE BUT RESTRAINED ANIMAL AND HUMAN TWO FACTIONS COLLIDE GIVE ME FOREVER AND NEVER, SIGHT, SOUND, TOUCH, TEARS OF FIRE BURN MY TONGUE TREES IN A DESERT, SAFETY AND DANGER. WOLVES, TIGERS AND LIONS, THE HEART OF THE PREDATOR
LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER, THE PREY TO PRAY FOR TIME AND NO TIME, ALONE AND NOT ALONE. INNOCENCE AND EXPERIENCE, BONDED FREELY. With a fever raging through her body and soul, Alyssa tore at her clothes and hair. She began to dance with wild abandon to the sound of the jungle heartbeat. She sniffed the air like a predator looking for prey and finally, fell to the jungle floor and listened. The souls within her could no longer concentrate on their purpose. All they knew was the beating of this internal and external drum. It was the sound of a strong body. It was the sound of a life long denied to them. It was the sound of madness. * * * * * Daelynn Farrell is a poetess and writer. She wrapped her original poem, Primitive, inside a tightly and highly packed few paragraphs for our Round Robin. To view more of her skills, visit Daelynn's personal webpage at: http://talkingtomyself.8m.com
by Robert Nailor All was void, there was a nothingness that spread before the writer; a plain, glaring sheet of paper. Then there was a thought and the word was written. A story! A writer is born. If only it was that easy. You start with a thought. It grows and niggles at your mind. You research, and research some more, and even more research. Notes stack up and scraps of ideas clutter the work area. Characters shift and mold within your waking hours, screaming for existence. You stall and continue the research, duplicating much of your previous work. The characters gel. They have charisma, they have conflict, they have depth. They don't have existence. The plot thickens. The ending is climatic. All is NOT well. You stare at the blank sheet of paper. Where do you start? The action scene? The love scene? Back in time? In the future. Do you explain the government? What of the intrigue? What do the characters believe. Is there a formal religion? Fantasy? Science? Questions. Hundreds of them. It's enough to craze a person. The anguish! Where are the answers? Within the myriad words and sheaves of paper that will be typed, re-typed and edited, the solution will reveal itself. But still, the same question raises its ugly head. Where do I start? Sit at the typewriter, or computer keyboard, and begin writing. The words will flow. Perhaps the story will be the way you first type it. More likely, not. Your plot will change, your characters will morph and personalities will clash. Scenes that you've played over and over within your mind will become reality... then evolve to its finality. The structure will firm up. The cast and plot will reveal itself to you and after editing, you'll know where to start; perhaps in the middle, perhaps closer to the end. But, where do you start? Now! Not in the future, not in the past. At the keyboard. You need to put words down, not let them mill around inside your mind. One last word. After you get the words down, don't get caught in the next horrible and anguished loop for writers--over re-writing. * * * * * Robert Nailor is the Poetry Editor and Production Manager for the Emporium Gazette. He currently has finished his first book, Celtic Fantasy, and is looking for representation.
THE EMPORIUM PATH Attention Romance Writers! In 2001, Harlequin is launching its newest - and hottest - series yet: BLAZE. Harlequin Blaze is an exciting new series that has evolved out of the very successful Temptation line. It will showcase the very best writers and stars from the original Blaze program. It is a vehicle to build and promote new authors who have a strong sexual edge to their stories. Finally, it is *the* place to be for seasoned authors who want to create a sexy, sizzling, longer contemporary story. Four books will be published per month, at 70,000-75,000 words. Blaze will feature sensuous, highly romantic, innovative plots that are sexy in premise and execution. The tone of the books can run from fun and flirtatious to dark and sensual. Submissions should have a very contemporary feel - what it’s like to be young and single in the new millennium. We are looking for heroes and heroines in their early twenties and up. There should be emphasis on the physical relationship developing between the couple: fully described love scenes along with a high level of fantasy and playfulness. The hero and heroine should make a commitment at the end. Are you a Cosmo girl at heart? A fan of Sex and the City, Ally McBeal or Friends? Or maybe you just have an adventurous spirit. If so, then Blaze is the series for you! New authors should send a query letter outlining their story in a couple of pages. Published authors may query and/or submit chapters and a synopsis. Agented and unagented submissions are welcome. Direct queries and submissions to: Ms. Brigit Davis-Todd
Ron Jones-- Managing Editor Bob Nailor--Poetry Editor and Production Manager Elyse Salpeter--Fiction Editor Mitchel Whitington--Non-Fiction Editor James Rogers--Business Editor Terrie Murray--Travel Writing Editor Sue Long Turner--The Writing Answer Lady & Denise Vitola--Editor-in-Chief
© Copyright 2000 by the Emporium Gazette. No portion of any article or other writing in this electronic publication may be copied, used or otherwise taken by any person or organization for any purpose or reason whatsoever without the express written permission of the Emporium Gazette.
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