In preparing for my presentation, Community, for the Flatiron Writers workshop, February 11, I thought about what community has meant to me over the years. I was surprised to find that, while community has always been important to me, the most important community turned out to be my writers’ community.
My early experiences with community were similar to most kids. I attended Sunday school and, through my church, joined the Girl Scouts. In high school, I joined a group of girls who called themselves a sorority. That, in turn, led me into a sorority in college.
My first job out of college was as a copy editor at Cosmopolitan magazine, BHGB (before Helen Gurley Brown). It was a small-staffed magazine that published excellent fiction and quasi-sensational articles (revelations by a wife and mother whose minister husband made her sleep in the hallway outside their bedroom door; the alarming rise of teenage suicides). Working there was like being part of a close-knit family. The editors handed off movie reviews to the copy department, which was my first taste of critical writing. I also was given the job of writing synopses of the articles in each issue for the publicity department. I left to become a free-lance writer, doing articles for the magazine—until HGB became editor—at which point I found a niche in reference book work where I wrote articles for encyclopedias on various subjects from world drama to mystery writers and subjects like (geographical) place names. But the pay was dreadful and I was unhappy with the isolation of the work, and I don’t mean loneliness. I’ve never been bothered by the loneliness of the writer’s life. What I wanted and needed was a community of other writers. So I left free-lance work and got a job as assistant to the editor of a small business magazine and eventually became managing editor. Once again, I had found a small community where co-workers became family. I wrote and edited articles, edited crossword puzzles, and created acrostics. I was there for some ten years when, once again, a change of editors made me rethink what I wanted. The answer was that I wanted to write fiction.
I returned to free-lance work, and started trying out various workshops. The turning point came when an ad in Poets and Writers listed openings in a fiction workshop to be given at something called the Writers’ Community. I couldn’t possibly resist that. I applied and was accepted, along with eleven other women who were starting out as writers. When the workshop was over, eight of us continued as a peer group that lasted almost ten years. Marriages and relocations ended the group. I joined other groups, but none was right for me. During that period, I had found writing space for rent at a small, private library. There I became friendly with another woman, who in turn introduced me to a writing workshop run by Philip Schultz—an award-winning poet and, at that time, head of the MFA program at New York University. In the forge of Phil’s stringent, at times acerbic, criticism, I became the writer I am today.
When my husband and I moved to Asheville in 1992, I looked for a group to join. I visited several, but didn’t find one that was right for me until 1993. It was then I became part of a group, of which Heather was a member, which met in the Flatiron Building. The group provided support, astute criticism, and respect for one another’s work. Membership in the group turned over. New members came and went, until Toby, in 1995. He came and stayed and formed, along with Heather and myself, the stable core that allowed the Flatiron Writers to continue. We have since added writers who share the Flatiron Writers’ goals of providing support, astute criticism, and respect for one another’s work. We also demand of one another that we be the best writers we can be.
In writing this, I see how predisposed toward Community I was and how happenstance helped me along: an ad for a workshop that in turn led to being part of a successful peer group; meeting a woman who introduced me to the workshop that in turn forged me as a writer; and, finally, coming upon that writing group in the Flatiron Building that has defined my writing life for nineteen years. But predisposition and happenstance aside, it was finding out who I wanted to be as a writer, and looking until I found the right people to work with, that led me to be the best writer I can be.

My novel, Under The Mercy Trees, comes out in two months, so it’s time for me to start thinking about upcoming book events.
There is, of course, the question of whether anyone will come to my readings. Remember that line in Spinal Tap? (I’m paraphrasing) “If I told them once I told them a thousand times–it’s Spinal Tap first, then Puppet Show.” Fortunately, the appearances my publisher and I have set up so far are all in cities where I have family and friends, so I don’t have to worry too much about no one showing up.
Then there’s the decision about what to wear. My dad does have a black beret and matching turtleneck I could borrow, but then I’d have to find someone with a bongo drum to accompany me. My mother, who is also a writer, likes to poke gentle fun at lady writers who wear “author clothes”–usually flowy, flouncy skirts and scarves, and the largest dangly earrings their lobes will support. I don’t really own anything suitable and wouldn’t know how to accessorize properly if I did. My wardrobe includes two types of clothing. I wear business suits when I have to look like a lawyer. At all other times I wear ripped jeans and comfortable 100% cotton shirts that don’t touch my body at any point. And fleece. I like fleece. Maybe Santa Claus will bring me an outfit for Christmas that strikes a happy balance between my Boston Legal look and my dug-it-out-of-a-trash-can look. I am grateful for one indispensable item of apparel I recently acquired–my bifocals, without which I wouldn’t be able to read at all.
Then we get to the reading itself. Some people have wonderful reading voices. My Flatiron Writer friend Maggie is one of them. She was an actress before she began writing, and her voice is mesmerizing. In comparison, my own native North Carolinian speech is somewhat nasal and flat. I thought about hiring Maggie to come with me on the book tour. I could take along a screen for her to hide behind, like the Wizard of Oz, and let her read while I move my lips. But I doubt I could afford to pay her what she’s worth. So any of you who come to see me will just have to put up with my lack of dramatic ability. I promise not to go on too long.
The choice of what passages to read will be interesting. Sex scenes are out, I suppose, as are scenes that give away the ending. When I read at a church there’s a handy Baptism chapter I can use. When I go to Flyleaf Books in Chapel Hill (January 27th at 7 p.m.) I can read an excerpt that takes place on the very street the bookstore is on. The rest I’ll have to wing.
The final, and perhaps most challenging, part of the author events will be the audience questions. I have been to many readings in my time, and inevitably someone in the audience asks, “who are your favorite authors” or “what are your favorite books?” Given the zillions of authors and books I love, how will I choose which ones to list? I’ll feel guilty if I leave one out!
Someone asked me this week whether I was nervous about the book events. I’m really not. Are you kidding? Put me in a room with lots of people who love books and let me talk to someone other than my husband about my novel? I can’t wait.

Flatiron Writers member Heather Newton is the author of the novel Under The Mercy Trees (Harper Paperbacks, Jan. 18, 2011). You can find a list of her upcoming book signings and other events on her website at http://www.heathernewton.net.

When I was pregnant, my husband and I negotiated about what to name our child. He was flexible about boys’ names, but would not budge on the girl’s name. He wanted a little red-haired daughter named Madeleine. He had even had some kind of mystical vision about her, and he would not consider any other name. Our discussions went something like this:
Me: How about Colleen?
Him: Madeleine.
Me: How about Rose?
Him: Madeleine.
Me: How about Kathleen?
Him: Madeleine.
You get the picture. And then when our daughter was born, and she did have red hair despite all the genetic odds, the name Madeleine settled on her as soon as I held her in my arms and I could not imagine her being anyone else.
The right name brings a person to life and allows you to see who they truly are and all the potential stretching out in front of them. The right title does the same for a novel.
For most of the many years it took me to write my novel, its working title was “Looking for Lenny.” I got points for alliteration, but in addition to being uninspiring, the title didn’t accurately tell what the novel was about. Yes, brother Lenny in the story had disappeared, but in truth the novel wasn’t so much about what had happened to him as it was about his family members’ struggle to come to terms with regrets of their own. The title set readers up to expect a mystery, and some were disappointed when instead they got a family drama.
The next title I tried was “Solace Fork.” I wanted to combine the family’s surname with some term that evoked place. All the good titles with “[Fill-in-the-blank] Falls” were already taken, so I chose Fork, which referred to a central place in the story where water branched, and also to a choice my main character had to make. I assigned “Solace” as the family surname to hint at the peace I hoped my characters achieved by the end of the novel. The title really didn’t work at all. The fact that the “Quantum of Solace” James Bond movie came out around the same time didn’t help, and I had to do all kinds of contorted revisions to try to get the title to fit the novel, which should have been a clue that I hadn’t chosen the right one.
When I found an agent, she sent me back to the drawing board to come up with a title that would reflect the novel’s central theme of redemption and second chances. I brainstormed a list of several dozen, but nothing on my list satisfied my agent or me. It had occurred to me that old-time hymns might be a good source of title phrases, since the novel is set in the rural south, but I hadn’t been able to find much on my own. Fortunately my mother, a devoted shape-note singer, was coming to town for my sister’s birthday party. I told my agent I would get my mom to bring all of her Sacred Harp hymnals with her and we’d spend the weekend on one last marathon quest for the perfect name for my book.
My mom arrived, laden down with hymnals. My idea was that she and I would read the lyrics silently to ourselves. My mom, however, loves a good sing, and proceeded to sing each hymn she turned to, until finally I had to tell her gently that we just did not have time to do it that way. We hunted for phrases about grace and redemption and rebirth and being washed clean. At one point she suggested “Sufficient Grace” and my ears perked up, until I remembered that writer Darnell Arnoult had just published a novel by that title. Finally, we came to a hymn called “From Every Stormy Wind That Blows” by Hugh Stowell. It spoke of “a calm, a sure retreat” to be found “beneath the Mercy Seat.” The words “mercy seat” grabbed us, and I put “Mercy Seat” and “The Mercy Seat” at the top of my new list of titles. That night, the rest of my family came over, and the womenfolk sang Mr. Stowell’s hymn. We sounded pretty darn good if I do say so myself.
In the morning, frowsy with sleep, my mom wandered into the kitchen and said, “I’ve been thinking. How about ‘The Mercy Tree’ instead of ‘The Mercy Seat’?” I loved it. That Monday I emailed a list of possible new titles to my agent, including “The Mercy Tree” and “The Mercy Trees.” My agent added the finishing touch when she emailed back, “How about ‘Under The Mercy Trees’?” For the first time ever, with this title, I could envision the cover of the book. And when I went back through the novel to see what revisions I might need to make for the title to fit, I hardly had to make any–the mercy trees were already in place, waiting for me.
My novel, UNDER THE MERCY TREES, has been accepted for publication. In the spring of 2011 I will hold the finished book in my hands, and I will not be able to imagine it ever being called anything else.

Copyright 2009 by Heather Newton

Admit it, you know you’ve done it, created a “fictional” character who is so much like your Aunt Betty you’ve been afraid to show the story to anyone in your family. Few of us go as far as Thomas Wolfe, who didn’t bother changing the names of the real people on whom he based his characters, but we do steal mannerisms, bits of dialog, exciting incidents, and unusual physical characteristics from the real life people we know. Sometimes we distort and change things around so much we no longer even remember which parts are based on fact and which parts we made up.
Fiction writers are not as likely to be sued for defamation as writers of non-fiction, but we aren’t immune, either. I’m going to give you some general rules about what is and is not considered defamatory in fiction. Any first year law student will tell you that for every rule there are exceptions, so as you read, insert the words “in general” before every sentence, and remember not to consider this blog piece as legal advice–consult your own attorney if you have specific questions. (How’s that for a disclaimer?)
One nice rule to remember is that you cannot defame a dead person. Claims for defamation die when the person dies. So if you want to write a novel that features George Washington in a compromising situation, go right ahead. One caveat: if the estate of a famous dead person is still commercially exploiting the celebrity’s image, other laws may prevent you from using the celebrity’s likeness.
Defamation is a written (libel) or spoken (slander) statement about someone which 1) is false; 2) subjects the person or organization to hatred, contempt, ridicule or loss of reputation; and 3) is published to a third party. In addition to these elements, famous people have to show “malice”– that the person making the statement knew it was false or had reckless disregard for whether it was true or not.
For fiction, the question is whether readers can identify a real person from your description: if the reader knows Billy Bob, will the reader be convinced that the defamatory parts of your fictional work (the parts which are false and would subject someone to hatred, etc.) describe Billy Bob.
In general, the more preposterous your plot, the less likely it is that readers will believe you are describing a real person. So if your novel has aliens abducting your Billy-Bob-like character, or you have him murder his wife when in fact Billy Bob’s wife is alive and well, you’re probably in good shape. Other good guidelines to follow are to give your character a different name, different occupation and different physical appearance than the real person. The less like the real person your character is, the better, and really, if you are a fiction writer, it shouldn’t be that hard to make things up.
Some things that will not save you if you have defamed someone: putting the words “in my opinion” before a defamatory statement (“in my opinion Billy Bob stole money from his employer”) will not work, because you are really asserting fact, not opinion. And that little disclaimer you see at the front of every book (“any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental . . .”) also isn’t much of a defense.
One parting thought. Revenge is not a good motive for writing fiction, and probably doesn’t result in the best-written fiction. If you’re mad at your ex, or your mother, or your boss, toilet paper their houses instead of portraying them in your fiction. Your writing is yours, an escape from the people who have done you wrong. Don’t give them a place in it.

Heather Newton practices law and writes fiction in Asheville.
Copyright 2009 by Heather Newton

When I was senior in high school, I confidently told the selection committee for the John Motley Morehead scholarship to UNC Chapel Hill that I was going to be a southern novelist. I was going to join that club of writers, who at the time included Lee Smith, Anne Tyler, Reynolds Price, Doris Betts, Fred Chappell, Guy Owen, and a little later admitted Jill McCorkle, Clyde Edgerton, Josephine Humphreys, Kaye Gibbons and all those others I wanted to be like. The Morehead selection committee was apparently not impressed, and didn’t give me a scholarship. Since then, a fair number of editors, agents and others in the publishing industry also have not been impressed, and at age forty-something, I am still not a published novelist. Although I’ve now found an agent to help me out, there is no guarantee that she’ll be able to sell my novel, given the current economic climate and the oh-so-not-commercial nature of the novel I’ve written. So I’ve been wrestling with how I’m going to handle it if I never accomplish this goal that I was silly enough to set for myself at age seventeen.

As a practicing Christian, my first thought was to look for a spiritual solution. Failure is nothing new to Christians. The Bible is full of characters who failed magnificently, and repeatedly. Characters who, like Peter in Luke 5:5 have said, “Master, we have worked hard all night and have caught nothing.” So I embarked on a quest to learn how God wants us to respond to failure. The consensus seems to be that God wants us to redefine success and failure in Godly terms, and to measure success by our service to others, not by our list of publications in literary magazines with a circulation greater than five thousand.

And here is where I fail as a Christian. The spiritual solution just doesn’t comfort me. I’m all for service to others, but I still need a way to live contentedly in the gap between what I had hoped to achieve with my life, and what I am actually likely to accomplish. Somehow I have to come to terms with it.

Having failed to be a good follower of Christ, the next place I looked for consolation was in the theory of multiple, or parallel, universes. Yes, you heard me right.

As I understand it, based on one ninth grade physics class and a lifetime of watching too much Star Trek, the theory goes something like this: that whenever a situation occurs where there is more than one possible outcome, there is one outcome in this universe, and all the other outcomes flutter out in a fan of alternate realities in other universes. The depressing aspect is that if you have ever had a brush with death in this universe, you’re bound to be dead in some other universe. The upside is, all those times some editor or contest judge chose someone else’s manuscript instead of mine, in another universe they picked mine. In universe # 54382, the three novels I have written are on the shelves at Barnes & Noble instead of under my bed, I am happily typing away on a fourth one, and will take a break this afternoon to go teach creative writing to budding writers who, in universe # 54382, have not yet been published but are diligently working to improve their craft. I am a far better writer in universe # 54382 than I am in this one. I am also ten pounds lighter and have had Botox injections. So, if I go with the theory of parallel universes, then when I’m old and in the nursing home and my children are packing up boxes of my unpublished work to take out to the curb, I’ll find comfort in knowing that somewhere in another dimension I am sitting on a veranda discussing point-of-view with members of the Fellowship of Southern Writers.

If a steadfast, if slightly batty, belief in alternate realities doesn’t console me, there is one other approach that might. A couple of years ago I went to a reading by three women affiliated with www.hipmama.com, an online parenting magazine for progressive (anarchist, even) parents. The authors, all far younger and hipper and more tattooed than me, were great (though they made me think I should start my own online magazine, called “Oldmama” or “Tiredmama” or “Mama-that-grew-up-in-the Reagan-years-and-didn’t-know-there-was-an-alternative-to-getting-a-responsible-job.com”). One of the authors said something about writing that has stuck with me. I’m paraphrasing, but she said that it’s easier to keep on working toward your dream than it is to convince yourself that you never wanted it in the first place.
I think that’s a workable theory. I think I believe it to be true.
Copyright 2009 by Heather Newton

When I first began writing fiction, I wrote short stories. I never considered the possibility of a novel. I reasoned if I could learn to write a decent short story I would at least have the technical writing skills for a novel. While that reasoning was valid, it was a little naïve.

Writing a short story is like building a bookcase or a simple piece of furniture. You can build the basic framework in a weekend’s worth of work. Subsequently, what you do to finish the work can be as simple as sanding and finishing or as intricate as carving inlays, adding handmade knobs, making drawers with handcut dovetails, or applying multiple layers of color and finish.

To stay with the building analogy, writing a novel is more like building a house. Not only does it require multiple kinds of skill: masonry, framing, roofing, finish carpentry. It also requires perseverance: day after day, week after week of unending work. Years ago, I built a house and when the foundation and framing were complete, the shingles and siding were on, the doors and windows in, my wife said to me, “Oh good. It’s almost done. In reality, it was only half finished even though it looked complete from the outside. A novel can be like that. You get the basic framework in place, you know your characters. If you have single or multiple plot lines, you know how they fit together. Yet, there are scenes upon scenes of detail to be fleshed out with detail. It is, like the house, a project which can have no end.

With a house, once you start it, you know it has to be finished. Unless you have unlimited funds, there are simply too many financial considerations and consequences to leaving it unfinished. The completion of the novel for a beginning writer with no contract or deadline has no similar consequences. You can put it away for long stretches of time; move on to other projects.

I’m not quite there yet. Not quite willing to make the time commitment it takes. But I’m working on it. Somehow, I know that discipline of writing every day, of getting to the end of something big will be a stepping stone.

Copyright 2009 by Toby Heaton

It’s Mother’s Day as I’m writing this. Mothers, among other things, are nurturers and caregivers – women who give life to their children, shepherd them through childhood, then send them out into the world

Our stories are a little like that. We create them, work and rework their language and content, then send them out into the world, hoping they will have an impact, that readers will find them. But when do we let them go? When is it time?

The Jan/Feb 2009 issue of Poets & Writers had a wonderful article about a writer named Beverly Jensen who wrote stories for sixteen years, working them over and over during that period but never submitting them to any publication. She contracted pancreatic cancer and died at a relatively young age. Her husband, Jay Silverman, got many of them published following her death. They were good stories.

There’s something pure about writing only for yourself. To spend years working at your craft with little or no acknowledgement. And yet, the good mother knows when it’s time, when she has done all she can do and her children have to make their own way in the world.

There have been many artists throughout history who have been unrecognized during their lifetimes. And undoubtedly many more, who were never known outside of a small circle and never celebrated for their genius. How many times have we heard a song from an unknown singer, picked up an old paperback from a stack in a used bookstore, seen a canvas in a rack at an art store and understood intuitively that here was undiscovered talent, here was creativity that should have had a wider audience.

I’m glad Beverly Jensen’s husband loved and believed in her stories enough to do what she herself could no longer do. But it makes me wonder how many stories, how many songs, how many poems are feathered away in obscurity because their mothers didn’t have quite enough confidence or push to set them loose in the world. It’s the first step, even if the journey may be short.

Copyright 2009 by Toby Heaton

It’s tax time, time to give my accountant a list of expenses incurred in connection with my so-far-not-profitable business as a writer. One category of deductions is entry fees for writing contests, and I’ve been pondering the deep question of whether writing contests are worth the money and aggravation they entail. If I look just at the money, dollars spent entering (several) and dollars won (a few), contests probably aren’t worth it. But if I consider the money I spend entering contests to be similar to the money I might budget for a trip to Vegas or Atlantic City, it makes sense to keep entering–I know I’m going to lose the money itself, but what I’m purchasing is the hours of entertainment I’ll get from playing the slot machines and black jack tables.
Here are some of the things writing contests have done for me, besides every decade or so earning me some money. I’ve had four short stories published as a result of contests. I’ve made the finals or semi-finals in some novel contests that I could brag about in the query letter I send to agents. I’ve gotten my name in the paper, which marketing experts say is a good thing for budding writers to try to do. Perhaps most importantly, placing in a contest, even if I don’t win the grand prize, is validation that I’m producing good work, and that I shouldn’t give up–that I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.
Recently, my novel, Solace Fork, made the quarter-finals (top 500) of the Amazon.com Breakthrough Novel contest. I’ve heard people criticize this contest for being too much like American Idol and for trying to channel wannabe authors toward Amazon’s print-on-demand division, but I think it’s a good contest. For one thing, it was free to enter. Also, quarterfinalists got two “editorial reviews” of their work from people who review lots of books for Amazon, and mine were generally positive, so that was a nice perk. And whether I proceed any further, I get a review by Publisher’s Weekly, which I assume I can put on the back of my book cover if I end up self-publishing, with ellipses replacing any unflattering parts. So I’m happy. And if I do proceed to the semi-finals (top 100), it will be one more thing I can put in my agent query letter.
I’m talking to the members of the Flatiron Writers about our group sponsoring a short fiction contest, with an actual monetary prize. We have to work out the particulars, like, how many stories can we realistically read, what kind of prize can we afford to offer, what “celebrity” writer can we convince to be the final judge, and things like that, but I think it would be great. Keep watching our website for details. You may be our winner.
Copyright 2009 by Heather Newton